


The Courting Habits of the Line of Durin

by diemarysues



Series: Marriage in the Manner of Dwarves [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Courtship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, so I fell into the trap sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 53,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits didn’t have such things as courting rituals – they were uncomplicated folk. They announced their affections with flowers or a cooked meal, a shared pipe or simply a kiss – and then there were meetings with both families and a date set for the wedding.</p><p>Dwarves, as he kept discovering, were a completely different kettle of fish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01 - Propriety

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thank you to my beta, the wonderful [daemonwildcat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonwildcat). Thank you to [suchanadorer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer) for her patience with my constant spamming of her inbox (and for suggesting the title), and thank you to [tawnyport](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tawnyport) for her advice and ideas. Thank you to [Bren](http://not-the-stig.tumblr.com) for the help with Khuzdul and characterisation, thank you to [malcs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/malcs/pseuds/malcs) for all your help (especially with the tense shift), and thank you to [alkjira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira) for the read through. And thank you to everyone who reads this!

* * *

_…certainly, the role of suitor is one of great consequence and standing, but it is only determined by the initiation of courtship, as opposed to predetermined gender roles as seen in other races. It is the suitor's responsibility (to themselves, to their partner, and to both of their families) to woo their partner in the manner set down by our ancestors. Should the courtship be concluded favourably, the duty of supporting their life together shall then be shared by the suitor and their partner as they see fit. This may be contrasted with the traditions of the households of Men, who…_

  
_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Preface: Pertaining to the History of Courting._   **  
  
**

* * *

 _March, 2943 T.A._  

 

The first of the oddness had started with Fíli and Kíli poking their heads around Bilbo’s doorway and staring at him.  
  
When he’d smiled in greeting, they’d both just exchanged wicked smirks and disappeared. It was unusual, to be sure, but he’d long since given up on deciphering the reasoning behind the princes’ actions.  
  
He did wonder what they were up to, and fervently hoped that it wasn’t some kind of elaborate and destructive prank. He had images of the entire mountain collapsing as a result of their carnage – and images of Thorin blaming it all on him.  
  
So whenever he saw the princes and they chattered and giggled and snickered, thinking he didn’t notice, he pretended that he didn’t. Notice, that is.  
  
And then there was Bofur. The recently married miner had stopped by unannounced after his day’s work. Bilbo’s happy invitation to supper had been declined, however.  
  
“I’m expected home,” Bofur had explained, rubbing his cheek and smearing the soot on his skin. “Rorin’ll have returned wi’ the rest of the scouting party.”  
  
A little disappointed, Bilbo had said, “Then you needn’t have come up all this way, my friend. We could have arranged to talk at another date.”  
  
Bofur had shaken his head. “I wanted t’ show you something.” He’d pulled a knife from his pocket and presented it to Bilbo. The steel blade was simple enough (and sharp), but the twisting pattern along its wooden hilt – echoed in the sheath – had taken Bilbo’s breath away.  
  
“This is for Rorin?” At Bofur’s shy nod, Bilbo had smiled and returned the knife. “It’s beautiful. I’m sure he’ll cherish it.”  
  
A flash of Bofur’s dimpled smile and he’d stowed the knife again. He’d seemed to hesitate, then, before saying, “It’s a custom of our people to present gifts of our own making to our Ones. ‘Specially if a Dwarf wishes to court his Chosen.”  
  
And, at the time, Bilbo had thought that Bofur was merely sharing a titbit of Dwarvish culture. He’d just been pleased that his opinion had been sought out. The matter was soon put out of mind in favour of the aforementioned supper (a sweet potato casserole with stuffed bell peppers and pork sausages).  
  
Glóin was next to turn up. It lightened Bilbo’s heart to see his companion, especially since he was accompanied by his son. At the age of 63, Gimli already sported luxuriant whiskers (which he no doubt lorded over Kíli) and was extremely polite when introduced to Bilbo.  
  
Glóin’s family had only just moved to Erebor, despite the mountain having been reclaimed over a year ago. He had clearly missed them. As they partook of elevenses in Bilbo’s rooms – a light meal of pancakes and bacon and eggs – Glóin waxed lyrical about his wife and son as well as the benefits of a loving family unit, enough that Gimli refused to meet his father’ or Bilbo’s gaze.  
  
Bilbo, more than a little mystified, nonetheless agreed that it would be a nice thing, although he personally didn’t see it happening to himself. Yes, he’d been surrounded by Hobbit families most of his life, with their large broods, but he’d never before felt the urge to follow their lead or even get married. He said as much.  
  
“Oh, but you must consider it,” Glóin pressed.  
  
“I thought most Dwarves were more focused on their craft,” Bilbo commented mildly.  
  
“They are,” Gimli said, relief evident in his tone. Though it was obvious that he’d been hoping for a change of subject, his father didn’t oblige.  
  
“Most Dwarves,” Glóin said, frowning a little at Gimli. “But not all. At any rate you’re not a Dwarf at all, are you?”  
  
Bilbo returned the smile. “Indeed not. I’d be forced to wear boots and be expected to forgo cutlery at the dinner table. No thank you!”  
  
Glóin chortled. “One day you’ll realise that all you need is a knife for meals, lad.” He picked up a rasher of bacon and pointed it at Bilbo. “And one day you’ll realise you’ll need a family to keep you happy.”  
  
They didn’t stay long after that, and Bilbo managed to secure an assurance that they would visit again in return for a promise to further reflect on Glóin’s advice on family and building one.  
  
It certainly was an unusual request, but one easily enough fulfilled.  
  
“And it’s not as if I have to act on it,” Bilbo told himself once alone. He shrugged, and went to clear the trays of food.  
  
The next few days passed by as normal, or at least to Bilbo’s eyes. He quite happily went about his business, and let the Dwarves of Erebor go about theirs. This was probably why he didn’t notice his friends’ bizarre behaviour, even when Nori – the most straightforward Dwarf of the lot – turned up at the Library with his questions.  
  
Intent on corralling Ori to have something to eat – as was his brotherly prerogative – Nori stopped by Bilbo’s table for a moment. “‘Ere, Bilbo, I wanted to ask you somethin’.”  
  
“Ask away,” Bilbo said, sitting back to let his ink dry.  
  
“Don’t you have any Hobbit lasses or lads in the Shire?” He thumbed the side of his nose absently. “Not meaning to be rude, o’ course, but it seemed to be the done thing, to settle down and have lots of wee Hobbitlings.”  
  
Bilbo shook his head, amused. “No, no, nothing like that. Confirmed bachelor, you see. I’ve been staying here for a year, besides – no one should wait that long for anyone.”  
  
“Does that mean you – aha!” Nori abruptly broke off as he spotted his brother and dashed between two bookcases.  
  
Turning the page and managing another two paragraphs of translations, Bilbo serenely ignored the affronted yelling that emerged from said bookcases. Glerin, sitting at the other end of the same table, made a huffing noise and muttered about ‘youths’. The Head Librarian, Milonna, merely chuckled.  
  
A despondent-looking Ori was dragged out by the back of his collar not moments later, complaining that he’d been about to head to the kitchens once it reached noon.  
  
“Noon was many hours ago, Ori,” his brother replied, rolling his eyes. “Let me finish talking to Bilbo and we can let Dori know where you’ve been.”  
  
“But I’m not hungry, honest!”  
  
Disregarding this, Nori asked, “So, if you’d found your One in the Shire, then would you have stayed?”  
  
Bilbo leaned back in his chair as he considers the answer. “If it’d happened before Gandalf ‘asked’ me to join the company, then I’d definitely have stayed in the Shire.” He crossed his arms. “If it’d happened when I went back to Bag End to collect my things… I honestly don’t know. I’m a changed Hobbit, Nori; I’ve found things here that grip me more tightly than anything I’ve known in Hobbiton.”  
  
“Why  _did_  you decide to stay here, Bilbo?” Ori asked, only to be elbowed by Nori. “Ow! Not that we don’t like you being here, of course!”  
  
A small, fond smile curled Bilbo’s lip. “Well, Thorin asked. And I do quite like it here. I’ve not got a proper garden anymore, but it’s my home, just like it’s yours.” He sighed a little before looking up at the two brothers, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Does that answer your question, Master Ori?”  
  
"It answers mine as well," Nori said, bowing a little, grip on Ori's tunic still firm. "If you don't mind, we'll be off so I can shovel some grub into this little 'un's mouth."  
  
Bilbo laughed and waved the two of them off, Ori hotly protesting the use of the moniker. As glad as he’d been to speak with them, he did want to finish at least this chapter by dinnertime, and chatting with friends wouldn’t get it done. So he dipped his nib back into the ink, and worked the hours away, most definitely not thinking on the oddness of Nori's questions.  
  
(And even if Bilbo was to wonder about such things, he'd have thought that Nori had just been curious about the customs of Hobbits, just as he himself found Dwarvish customs fascinating.)  
  
So it was a very rude shock when Dís, after inviting him to her quarters, thumped a great big book on the table between them. She almost upset his bowl of rabbit stew, which Bilbo most correctly concentrated on righting before properly looking at the book and its title.  
  
When he did, he almost choked.  
  
"What is this?" Bilbo managed to ask, and Dís raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
"You can read quite well, or so I thought, Master Hobbit. Are you not translating our Sindarin texts into Westron?"  
  
"Only because it was the only compromise your brother would agree on," Bilbo grumbled. If Bilbo hadn't put his foot down, likely Thorin would have razed every Elvish text in the Library, heedless of the information contained within. He shook his head to dispel thoughts of Thorin’s stubbornness.  
  
He cleared his throat and said, "That's neither here nor there.” No, the current concern was Dís and her book. “Why is this even in Westron?" He opened it and flipped through the first few pages, confused. Surely the Dwarves would have kept this part of their culture in Khuzdul, keen as they were on making sure others never learned their secrets.  
  
"Ah, that was my work." She looked a little proud. "I translated it specially."  
  
"Really? What for?"  
  
"For you, of course." Dís obligingly thumped him on the back when he started choking on his untimely mouthful of stew. "Mahal's sake, Bilbo, you have not acted this dense before."  
  
"Why –" he coughed a little, but gamely continued, "why would _I_  need a book on, on Dwarvish courting?" His voice became a little hysterical towards the end, but Bilbo thought it rather justified.  
  
Dís obviously didn’t. "Then what do you expect to do if you are courted by a Dwarf?"  
  
Bilbo's eyes widened in alarm. "Y-y-you’re not –”  
  
"Calm yourself, and don’t be an idiot." The princess shook her head, even if her eyes were amused. "I have had my time with my One, however short it was. I do not need companionship." She raised an eyebrow. "You, however… I think it would be good for you to settle down."  
  
Her words reminded Bilbo of his conversation with Glóin. "I’m not your new project, am I?" He'd heard the horror stories from Fíli and Kíli (and Thorin) and didn’t relish the idea at all.  
  
She looked even more amused. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
Dís insisted that he keep the book, and was gracious enough to let the subject lie as they continued on with their meal. Bilbo’s face flushed whenever he caught sight of the tome but he valiantly kept up his side of the conversation and eventually forgot about courting customs altogether. They had bread pudding for dessert (he was proud to say that he’d introduced that dish to Erebor) and talked about spectacles and whether Bilbo needed them.

(He most assuredly did not.)  
  
After Dís’ third yawn in as many moments, though, Bilbo politely excused himself from her quarters. Neither had realised the lateness of the hour.  
  
Bilbo made it back to his rooms with the ease and familiarity of long practice. The winding passageways and corridors of Erebor had been a challenge for many months, and he’d had to stop and ask for directions countless times. He still had to, now and again.  
  
As he walked, he hugged the book close to his chest, compulsively checking every few moments that no one would be able read its title – not that anyone bothered him as he walked along. One or two Dwarves nodded as they passed, and he nodded in reply, but otherwise Bilbo and his burden were paid no heed.  
  
When he pushed his door open, he was pleasantly surprised to find his quarters were not as dark or as cold as he’d initially feared. Someone had thoughtfully stoked a fire and Bilbo sighed at the warmth, his toes wiggling happily.  
  
Placing his new book aside, Bilbo took a moment and stood before the fireplace, rubbing his arms. While it was true that living in a mountain meant less temperature variation, Bilbo still found the persistently cool air uncomfortable. It was supposed to be spring, but unless he ventured into open air, Bilbo wouldn’t have been able to tell.  
  
He sighed and added another log so the fire wouldn’t die in the night.  
  
Tomorrow he had no definite plans beyond returning to the Library for his translating. Really, it was lucky his mother had gotten hold of Sindarin texts via Gandalf, and had managed to teach Bilbo enough to actually have something useful to do in Erebor.

Bilbo tapped his lower lip absently as he glanced about. He wondered if he could badger one of the Dwarves into visiting Dale with him. Maybe one or both of the princes, they’d be most amenable to escaping their –  
  
Bilbo took a proper look around the room, then paused. Frowned.  
  
Now, how had he not noticed the box?  
  
It was square and made of white oak, about half a handslength high and two handslengths wide. Hobbit hands, that was. The metal that was inlaid in the lid formed a surprisingly curved pattern despite its obviously Dwarvish make.  
  
Bilbo frowned, and chanced a glance at the book Dís had given him earlier.  
  
…surely not.  
  
After a moment he shrugged.  _Only one way to find out_ , he thought practically.  
  
The lid was smooth and cool to the touch, swinging back on well-oiled hinges. The first thing Bilbo noticed was the lack of a note from the sender and he wrinkled his nose. That meant that he wouldn’t be able to send a thank you, as was proper after receiving a gift. And what a gift it was…  
  
Bilbo, with infinite care and awe, lifted the first of the handkerchiefs out of the box.  
  
His toes twitched in appreciation of the fine linen, fingers smoothing over the hemstitching. Bilbo could tell the quality of cloth at a glance, and this was top quality work indeed. The stitching was so tiny it was almost invisible and in the corner in dark red thread were his initials: two spiky B’s, back to back and entwined.  
  
He took his time inspecting every one of them, noting that each was monogrammed. Some were linen, others cotton, others even silk. All were utterly exquisite.  
  
Still, emptying the box further cemented the fact that he didn’t know who’d sent it.  
  
“Could this be a courting gift?” he muttered, and blushed at even considering it. Who would do such a thing? And why so conveniently on the night Dís had gifted him with the book? It couldn’t be pure chance, surely.  
  
Bilbo sighed and closed the box, running his fingers along the pattern on its top. He would not get any answers tonight, that much was clear.  
  
Trying to put the mystery out of his mind, he quickly readied himself for bed. After settling himself in, however, he found his gaze inexorably drawn to the latest addition to his book collection.  
  
After a moment, Bilbo scowled. “Oh, very well!” he said to the empty room, crossly padding to the table and snatching the book up. “I’ll get started on it, is all.”  
  
If he was entirely truthful to himself, Bilbo would admit to being more than a little curious about the whole situation. Hobbits didn’t have such things as courting rituals – they were an uncomplicated people. They announced their affections with flowers or a cooked meal, a shared pipe or simply a kiss – and then there were meetings with both families and a date set for the wedding.  
  
Dwarves, as he kept discovering, were a completely different kettle of fish.  
  
Settling himself against the pillows, Bilbo finally opened the book. Now that he was aware of it, he took the time to study Dís’ handwriting; its angular letters and definite slant so different from his own written Westron. After a few minutes of aimlessly flipping pages, though, he shook himself out of his reverie and started reading proper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Preface_

_Pertaining to the History of Courting_

_Much has been written and taught in recent years about the problems of being wed and the substitutes to Dwarvish courtship or betrothal. Despite the fact that this seems to be a very novel and recent idea, its roots stem from a much earlier time. This tome endeavours to not only impart a comprehensive account of Dwarvish courtship, but also details the steps involved in such a noble undertaking._

_It must be understood that meticulous and exhaustive investigation on these practices has been carried out, gleaned from the Libraries of the great Dwarven Kingdoms of Middle-Earth. The knowledge in this tome is to be treated as the language of the Dwarves and as every other cultural aspect of our people. It is a heritage that must be kept alive._

 

Bilbo skimmed the next page-and-a-half of detailed accounts of the references in question, (correctly) assuming that it was something he needn’t concern himself with. His eyes alighted on what looked like more promising passages. **  
  
**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The tale of Nalir Sunbeard and Broll the Adept has been told to every Dwarf, from when they were but Dwarflings in their cradles. It is the bedrock of our courting traditions, as it is the first of its kind according to Dwarven records._

__

_We have included the earliest known account of this tale, as follows:_

__

_Nalir Sunbeard, so called for her flaxen braids and whiskers, was a Dwarf of great standing and considerable repute. The most formidable Dwarf of her time, she was quick with her blade and quicker to anger. It was often said that she would find no happiness outside of the battlefield, and this news suited her down to the ground._

__

_However, once Nalir caught sight of the dark-haired Broll, she surprised all by declaring that she would have no other as her spouse._

__

_Heedless of discouragement from friends and family alike, Nalir marched up to Broll's forge, admiring the way the light from the fire caught the silver clasps in his braided beard. When he finally deigned to glance at her, it was to curtly order her out of the forge, if she only planned on gawping like a frog._

__

_When she informed him of her true intentions, he flatly refused._

__

_Nalir went from his sight willingly, but returned to his door the next day and - when he sent her away again - the day after that. Broll made it clear that he only wished to concentrate on his trade. He would speak these same words every day when Nalir came to him, and she would nod, and bow, and take her leave._

__

_Then came the day that Nalir did not visit Broll's forge at the usual time. Even he was surprised at this, but soon went back to the breastplate he was crafting. He was happy so long as he could continue on without interruptions._

__

_It was only once the sun had disappeared past the horizon and Broll had set his hammer aside - it was only then that Nalir appeared with her gift in hand, and presented it to him._

__

_Some say it was a great mithril box, studded with emeralds as bright as Broll's eyes. Others say it was a length of fine gold chain, thin as thread and impossible to break. There are even accounts of a great opal, the size of an egg, set into a silver filigree locket. All that is known for sure is that it was a gift that demonstrated enough skill for Broll to smile at Nalir, and to tell her that he would consider her offer._

**  
  
**At this point, Bilbo had to make a conscious effort to uncross his eyes. As much as he loved stories – and this was a good one – he simply couldn’t continue. With a sigh, he closed the book and set it on the stone bedside table. Wasn’t as if he needed to read the whole thing in one night, after all.  
  
With that in mind, Bilbo blew out the candle and pulled the blankets up under his chin. He was asleep not minutes later.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast had been a straightforward affair of bread and a nice spread of cold cuts (although Bilbo had mourned the lack of fish in Erebor’s kitchens). Finding out that Fíli and Kíli were off with one of the many patrols, Bilbo shrugged and resigned himself to another morning in the Library.  
  
He didn’t expect to find Thorin there.  
  
“Well met, Mister Baggins.”  
  
Bilbo set his ink jar on the table he returned the King’s warm greeting, smiling at Thorin. It’d been a while since they’d last seen each other.  
  
Other than the fineness and the cut of Thorin’s clothes – dark grey velvet and the pelt of a great Hind – as well as the crown that sat on his brow, Thorin did not drape himself in ornamentation. His regal bearing was more apparent in the way he carried himself, every bit as straight-backed and proud as he had been when he’d appeared at Bilbo’s door.  
  
To think that such an ordinary gentlehobbit as himself was worthy of the friendship of a King and his kin was astonishing – especially when this same King had sneered at him and called him grocer at their first meeting. Saving each other’s lives time and time again had obviously done wonders to change things.  
  
“Are you well, Thorin? You look…”  _Tired_ , Bilbo wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if he should voice the concern.  
  
“My nephews saw fit to wake the entire East Wing this morning,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “Their mother was not pleased.”  
  
“I can imagine not.” Bilbo laughed. “Is that why they’re out with the patrols?”  
  
“I do not take kindly to my sleep being disturbed. Especially today.”  
  
“Oh?” The Hobbit felt a little out-of-sorts; they were both still standing beside the table, Bilbo with his manuscripts and Thorin with his hands behind his back. It was a decidedly awkward meeting. “Is there something special happening today?”  
  
“I… have something I must see to. Something important.” Thorin turned away, squinting at nothing in particular (or that was what it looked like to Bilbo). “You may be right to call it special.”  
  
Bilbo nodded. “Well, I appreciate you stopping by. I hope it’s not caused any sort of delay, your coming to see me.” He paused. “If that’s why you’re here, of course. To, um, to see me.” Bilbo wondered at this sudden inability to speak normally. He put it down to not having conversed with Thorin for such a long time.  
  
He’s levelled with a frown and feared that he’d misspoken – but Thorin only nodded and muttered, “Yes, of course.”  
  
Shooting Thorin a smile (that went unreturned), Bilbo said, “Well, you’d best be off. Since you have that important thing to see to and all.” He placed the rest of his things on the table and pulled the chair out, seating himself. “Who knows, if you’re ever free you’re welcome to tea in my rooms.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
Bilbo snorted a little at this non-answer. Typical Thorin.  
  
Some time after he’d found his place and settled into the steady scratch of his nib, Bilbo realised that the powerful presence of the King had not left his side and looked up from his parchment. He raised his eyebrows at Thorin, who only tilted his head, expression unreadable.  
  
“I see you’re making good progress with your translations.”  
  
Bilbo opened his mouth, not quite sure how to respond to this awkward statement (compliment?), but then closed it, frowning. “Aren’t you… going?”  
  
“No.”  
  
His frown deepened. Hadn’t Thorin just mentioned needing to deal with something? Something special that put him in a tense enough mood to order Fíli and Kíli out on patrol for a silly prank? Did his continued presence mean that whatever it was would take place in the Library?  
  
Or had Bilbo somehow missed Thorin’s requesting his company (unlikely as that was)? Well then surely he –  
  
Then, and then everything pieced together – the book, all the unsubtle hinting of his friends – and suddenly Bilbo  _knew_ , just knew who had sent the box. The  _oak_  box, filled with  _handkerchiefs_.  
  
“So this is what the handkerchiefs were about? You wish to court me?”  
  
Thorin nodded, once. He didn’t smile outright, instead looking infinitely pleased.  
  
“Couldn’t you have left a note?”  
  
“I thought I made it quite clear that I was the gift giver. You figured it out in the end, did you not?”  
  
Bilbo sat back, unsure of how he should react. He took a minute to consider his feelings on the matter. There was shock, of course, and a healthy amount of self doubt. But there was also shy happiness and… anticipation?  
  
He smiled wryly. His subconscious should probably be reined in a bit.  
  
“But – oh, I understand. Since you have heirs already you’re able to do this, right?”  
  
Thorin shook his head. “Even without Fíli and Kíli, I am free to choose my own consorts. We are not like Men, Bilbo. Our heirs don’t need to be direct descendants.”  
  
Wisely refraining from pointing out that the lives of Men were so much shorter than that of Dwarves (and therefore that making sure their lines endured was more of a priority), Bilbo instead said, “I see.”  
  
Thorin took a breath. He had an odd, pinched sort of expression on his face. “Am I to assume you’ve accepted the gift?”  
  
Bilbo smiled. “Yes, and thank you for them. It was very thoughtful of you.”  
  
The Dwarf still wore the same look though – one Bilbo belatedly realised was  _nervousness_. With what looked like difficulty, Thorin met his eyes. “And am I to assume you have accepted my intentions to court you, as well?”  
  
“Oh!” He hadn’t realised that he’d have to respond straightaway. Surely he should be allowed time to think? The prospect of being courted by Thorin was definitely not an undesirable one. Thorin was his friend, and a powerful, handsome, interesting person at that. Bilbo was well aware that it was unlikely that he’d find anyone as special as the Dwarf King. If there was anyone in all of Middle Earth that Bilbo could see himself marrying, it was him. Bilbo recalled Dís’ words and found himself imagining, for a moment, what it would be like to ‘settle down’ with Thorin.  
  
His gaze lifted. “I accept. Of course I accept.”  
  
The King actually sighed in relief, a huge gusty exhale of breath that accompanied the tension draining from his shoulders. Now he smiled properly at Bilbo and bowed a little. “Then I will leave you to your devices, Bilbo. Until tomorrow.”  
  
At this Bilbo blushed a little and got to his feet. That was hardly a proper goodbye between two people who’d just entered a courtship. He had to tiptoe, of course, and raised his hand so he might cup Thorin’s cheek as they kissed.  
  
Except Thorin took a step back, putting himself firmly out of reach of Bilbo’s fingers and – more importantly – lips. “Halfling. Have some propriety.”  
  
Frowning mightily, Bilbo settled back on his heels. “Pardon?”  
  
“We are in a public place,” Thorin said in a maddeningly reasonable tone of voice, gesturing at the hall they were in and seemingly unaware or uncaring of how few Dwarves were around. “And we are not yet betrothed, besides.”  
  
“Betrothed – it’s just a  _kiss_ , Thorin.” He stepped forward, reaching out again.  
  
Fingers grasped his wrist in a too-gentle grip, as if Thorin was afraid he might snap Bilbo’s bones. (Bilbo had a second to think that that was an entirely possible incident, and then he was back to his bewildered confusion.)  
  
“Have you not been instructed in our ways of courtship?”  
  
“Not instructed as such, no. Dís presented me with a book last night with the relevant information. Or I assume relevant.” Now he wished he’d made more of an effort with it.  
  
The crease between Thorin’s brows disappeared. “Ah. Then I would advise you to make yourself familiar with its contents.”  
  
Now it was Bilbo’s turn to frown. “Are you saying that there is a list of dos and don’ts?” There was no answer, but Bilbo didn’t need one, correctly reading the Dwarf’s expression. (And really, he should’ve expected it – what was the point of writing a book about courting if there weren’t rules to keep track of in the first place?) “There are! And kissing’s not…  _allowed_?”  
  
“Are you rescinding your decision, then?” Thorin asked quietly, eyes downcast.  
  
“I –” Taken aback, Bilbo groped for words. “No. No, not at all. I just. I’m surprised, is all.”  
  
“I will not force you.” His voice was gruff.  
  
Bilbo touched his free hand to Thorin’s, prompting the King to meet his eyes. “You are not,” he said softly. When Thorin released him, Bilbo stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides. Tentatively, he tried for a smile.  
  
Thorin returned it, and Bilbo felt more than a little relieved that he’d not somehow jeopardised the whole courtship before it had even started. It was with a swooping feeling low in his gut that he fully grasped what he’d just agreed to.  
  
“I take my leave, Bilbo.” Thorin stepped backwards without turning, almost as if he was loathe to turn away from Bilbo’s face – and the mere possibility that that was true made Bilbo feel quite hot around the collar.  
  
Once he was alone, the Hobbit let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and sat down heavily in his chair.  
  
 _What have you gotten yourself into this time, Bilbo Baggins?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. Yes. There was no reason for this fic other than a cackle-inducing idea of "Dwarves being fucking prudes". No, really, that's in my notes. And somehow it's morphed into this monster of a fic.  
> I'll be trying to update as regularly as my schedule allows, seeing as this fic is mostly finished.
> 
> All remaining errors are my own.


	2. 02 - Citrine and Topaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of his decision catch up with Bilbo. He'd much prefer if they hadn't.

_…different, though in more recent centuries, Dwarvish courtship customarily lasts one turn of the Dwarvish calendar – unless halted by mutual agreement or by request of the partner. The suitor may not call off a courtship for any reason; it has been suggested that this rule is set in place to make certain that such liaisons are not entered into lightly. To frivolously court another Dwarf is a grave transgression by our Laws, and punishment is to be meted out by the King. The partner's presence will be required during this time, to request and receive compensation. Of the types of compensation allowed…_

_…A suitor may kiss their partner only on fingers, cheek, or forehead - lest they both be regarded as unchaste. Only wedded couples may kiss each other on the lips while in the presence of others, but discretion and prudence is always preferred._

_A Dwarf's chastity is to be treasured and cherished as the dearest gem, as it will serve to bring honour to their house and that of their future spouse._

_—Excerpts from Dwarvish Courting, Chapter One: Pertaining to the Precepts of Courting_

 

* * *

 

_March, 2943 T.A._

 

Once it became clear to Bilbo that his mind was in too much disarray for him to get any work done, he started to clear his things from the table. As he closed his manuscript on Elvish medicine, Glerin snorted and started.

 

“What?” He peered up at Bilbo with narrowed eyes. “Is it time for luncheon already?” he asked in his heavily-accented Westron.

 

“No, no.” He gingerly patted the Dwarf on his shoulder as he passed. “Not for a good three hours, I suspect.”

 

Glerin nodded seriously before returning to his previous position; slumped over a huge scroll, his multiple braids spread over the angular runes that covered it. Within seconds he was snoring softly.

 

Bilbo just stood there and watched the elderly Dwarf for a moment, bemused. Then he shook his head and continued on his way.

 

Dwarves, he decided, were an odd lot. This whole courtship business was prime example of that.

 

He had to admit, he’d never thought that Thorin had had any designs on their rapport beyond simple friendship. Not to say that it was very easy to decipher any of Thorin’s thoughts, but Bilbo at least could claim to be able to do so better than most. Finding out that the gruff Dwarf-King wanted to make Bilbo (of all people!) his consort, well that was…

 

Bilbo’s steps faltered.

 

It was _insane_ , that’s what it was.

 

Bilbo knew Thorin well enough to be certain that the King wouldn’t play such a cruel joke on him (or anyone else). It wasn’t in Thorin’s character to fool around with the affections of others, and he definitely wouldn’t feign affection of his own. He was far too serious, and far too honourable.

 

So this was, beyond any doubt, real. Completely and undeniably and terrifyingly real.

 

He stopped in a little niche in the wall of the hallway. As he steadied his breathing, Bilbo tried to recall Thorin’s facial expressions during their conversation in the Library.

 

Obviously the nervousness came to mind immediately – Bilbo still couldn’t really believe that Thorin was _capable_ of being nervous. He’d only ever known the King to be utterly sure of himself, even in cases where he was in the wrong – and oh, Thorin had proved _that_ many times over. Seeing that he could be hesitant and insecure was strangely comforting. Endearing, even.

 

Thorin had also been almost palpably reassured; both when Bilbo had accepted his courtship, and when he’d confirmed that he would see it through. There had been genuine fear in Thorin’s face, and he had watched as it gave way to pure relief.

 

Awkwardness and Thorin’s usual stoic air – both of which Bilbo had had thorough experience with – had been present in abundance. He was perfectly capable of managing Thorin in such situations.

 

Not so much when the King was scandalised, though. Bilbo made a face. That had just been _strange_.

 

But – and this was perhaps the most important issue – had there been love there? Had there been proof beyond doubt that Thorin had sincere intentions?

 

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know what love looked like in those pale blue eyes.

 

Bilbo wondered if he’d ever find out.

 

He sighed, leaning his back against the wall and sliding to the floor. Ignoring the looks he received as he crossed his legs, Bilbo reached up to run a hand through his curls. He just… he felt like he’d been caught flat-footed. Yes, his friends had been trying to steer him onto the path of realisation, but their help had been simultaneously direct and indirect. (Not to mention extremely confusing at the time.) Certainly, not a one of them had hinted at _Thorin_ being interested in Bilbo. Up until Dís’ unsubtle gift, the thought that they’d meant for him to settle with a Dwarf hadn’t even crossed his mind.

 

And really, Dís was Thorin’s sister. Surely she could have warned him.

 

A small chuckle escaped Bilbo. Yes, that would have gone over swimmingly: ‘ _Why would I need a book on Dwarvish courting?_ ’ ‘ _Well, what do you expect to do when my brother starts to court you?_ ’

 

He didn’t know what he would have done with the information if he _had_ been forewarned. He didn’t want to dwell on it.

 

The thing was – the thing was, Bilbo just couldn’t _understand_. He was a Hobbit, and not a particularly special one at that. Oh, yes, he was more adventurous than most, but any one of the more nasty gossips of the Shire would just call that a defect or the result of bad upbringing. Yes, even that he’d dined with Elves and fought in a war and stolen from a Dragon – but these had been deeds borne from unusual circumstances. It was only by chance and luck that he stood (or sat, as the case was) here now.

 

No, he was not special. He was not a great warrior, he was not a burglar, and he was not a hero. He was astoundingly ordinary. He could not see why Thorin should be interested in him as a life companion, and for good reason.

 

He was not worthy to be the consort of a King, much less to one as great as Thorin.

 

So, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire – and of Erebor – did what all Hobbits do when upset, and headed to the kitchens.

 

* * *

 

The flurry of motion of the Dwarves was enough to make Bilbo dizzy. That night of twelve Dwarves (and a Wizard) in Bag End seemed so long ago, and so small in comparison.

 

At every given moment there seemed to be four separate Dwarves in charge of seven separate dishes, acting independent of each other and yet in complete harmony. A pinch of salt here, a dash of honey there. Nothing went to waste and nothing burned. Crockery sailed overhead at a mindboggling speed and Bilbo had to work very hard to keep his head down.

 

“More dumplings, Bilbo?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, yes please!” He smiled as three were tipped onto his plate, freshly cooked. “These are very good, Bombur.”

 

“That’s very kind of ya.” Bilbo was patted on the shoulder gently with a (thankfully clean) ladle. “It’s a family recipe, ya see. My Da propositioned my Ma with these, don’t ya know.”

 

“Oh.” Bilbo lowered his gaze. “I see.” The very thing he’d come here to forget, spread in front of him.

 

“The secret is parsley and butter.” Bombur tapped the side of his nose. “And to steam them.” He didn’t turn away from Bilbo, but still managed to neatly hit another cook on the nose with his spatula. “Get away from my potatoes, Kugnar.”

 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Bilbo said, absent-mindedly cutting a dumpling into manageable pieces.

 

“Ya should. You’re always welcome to cook alongside me, Bilbo. I know it lessens the burdens of your mind.”

 

Bilbo’s head snapped up, but Bombur was busy scoring a large roast. His surprise got the better of his manners and he blurted out, “What?”

 

Bombur’s smile dimpled his cheeks. “Slow I may be in body, Bilbo, but not in mind. I did notice ya were distraught when ya came in.”

 

The Hobbit ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks. “Bombur, I didn’t mean to –”

 

“D’ya want to talk about it?”

 

Bilbo considered the offer, he really did. The temptation was there to bare his soul and air his troubles. But he couldn’t. Not in such a public place. Not when he didn’t even know what to say. His blush remained as he shook his head, no.

 

Bombur looked unsurprised and not at all offended. He merely started rubbing a mix of oil and salt and pepper into the roast he was preparing.

 

“Your parents,” Bilbo started hesitantly. “Did they… did they court each other?”

 

He was given a sidelong look of surprise. “Mahal, no. They’re simple folk, just like we are. My Ma told Bofur and me that they knew they were each other’s Ones. They had a simple handjoining ceremony not long after.”

 

Bilbo nodded. Unbidden, the image of Thorin came to mind, dressed for a Hobbit wedding. Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and Reclaimer of Erebor, with a delicate circlet of white flowers crowning his head and ribbons twined around his fingers and wrists.

 

Blue ribbons, he decided.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

Oh, no. He’d been smiling, hadn’t he? With his chin resting on his palm and his gaze focused on nothing, and – Bilbo sighed.

 

“I didn’t think the dumplings were _that_ good,” Bombur teased, chuckling when Bilbo shot him a wan smile. The Dwarf made to pat him on the back, but stopped himself and started to towel his hands clean.

 

“Do you know who I can ask?” At Bombur’s enquiring glance, Bilbo licked his lips and clarified, “About, about your style of courting. General Dwarvish courting, I mean. Not _yours_ in particular, I just –”

 

Bombur cut him off with a laugh. “I know what ya mean, Bilbo, no need to work yourself up into a tizzy.” He ducked as a wooden bowl sailed by. “I’d reckon Balin’s the best Dwarf for the job. Since y’know each other well. If ya’d like, I can send a runner to pass a message to meet ya somewhere once he’s free of his responsibilities for the day.”

 

Bilbo blinked. “That would be… most helpful, Bombur, thank you.” He hopped off his stool to bow low, and Bombur chuckled at him.

 

“Now, now, none of that, Bilbo. I’m happy to be of service.” The red-haired Dwarf snapped his fingers. “Folin! Stop your lollygagging and come here, m’boy.”

 

A Dwarfling with an incredibly curly black beard ran up to the Hobbit and his Dwarf companion, barely dodging several kitchen helpers laden with pots and pans. Bilbo actually felt a little worried for the boy’s safety.

 

“Yes, Mister Bombur?”

 

“I need ya to carry a message, lad. Think ya can do that?”

 

Folin puffed his chest up proudly. “‘Course I can!”

 

Bombur relayed the message and made Folin repeat it back to him before letting the Dwarfling scamper off excitedly.

 

“A relative?” Bilbo asked, not really seeing any resemblance but his Hobbity politeness coming to head.

 

“Of a sort. He’s one of my brother-in-law’s nephews.” Bombur heaved a sigh as he levelled himself onto a stool. “Good lad. There are always a few little ones helping around. Keeps them out of trouble, and we send ‘em off with extras for their families. Every little bit helps.”

 

Bilbo nodded. He knew from conversations with Dori and Glóin that there were still many families struggling to make ends meet and to feed hungry mouths. The economy of Erebor had yet to flourish in face of the still-occurring repair work.

 

No one complained, though. They were a hardy folk, were Dwarves. Bilbo knew this from firsthand experience.

 

He looked over at Bombur, who had played his part in the quest as well as any other member of the Company (barring the unfortunate incident with the boat in Mirkwood), and had come out of it unchanged.

 

Maybe that was an incorrect statement; he’d hardly known Bombur prior to the quest to Erebor, after all. It had surprised him to learn (after the Battle of Five Armies) that the large Dwarf had been happily married for several decades, with seven little Dwarflings and another one now on the way. (Bombur had explained that he hadn’t spoken of his family earlier only because he’d missed them terribly.)

 

Bilbo thought that was rather remarkable, considering how few Dwarf-women were blessed with children. Bombur and his wife certainly were productive.

 

He was so engrossed in his musings that he almost fell to the floor when Bombur snapped his pudgy fingers right in front of Bilbo’s nose.

 

“Wh – what?”

 

Bombur huffed and, with the air of someone who’d repeated the same thing a hundred times, said, “I asked if ya were going to be leaving or not. I’m about to prepare my apple chicken for lunch, and I’d be glad for an extra pair of hands.”

 

“Like you made the night after we left Laketown?”

 

Bombur nodded ponderously. “Didn’t ya want to learn how to make it?”

 

“Yes, I did. Well remembered! And…” Bilbo paused, well aware of how fiercely Bombur defended his kitchen and his cooking. “Perhaps I could make recommendations?”

 

There was a long, tense moment in which the pandemonium of the kitchen continued on around them. Bombur finally nodded, smiling, and said, “What did ya mean to suggest?

 

It was a half hour later when Bilbo had his sleeves rolled up and was rolling out pastry that he realised he was in a much better state of mind than when he’d left the Library.

 

He gave Bombur a grateful smile, and continued on.

 

* * *

 

Balin’s door was open when he arrived, but Bilbo knocked all the same. The white-haired Dwarf was sitting at his desk and turned to him with a smile.

 

“Ah, Bilbo. It’s good to see you.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Come in, come in.”

 

Bilbo was ushered into an armchair by the fire, Balin even going so far as to offer him a blanket for his lap and a pipe of the leaf Dwarves preferred. He accepted the former and turned down the latter, knowing that he wasn’t nearly relaxed enough for a smoke.

 

Balin just shrugged at this – “Please yourself.” – and set about lighting his own pipe.

 

“Now that we’re comfortable, my lad – you wanted to speak of something?”

 

Bilbo bobbed his head in a stilted nod, nerves drying his throat. “I did. I had, I had questions. And I am aware of how private Dwarvish culture is, so they may be inappropriate, but I think that… I hope that you’ll make an exception.”

 

“It will depend on the question, lad.” Balin made sure Bilbo held his gaze before continuing seriously, “There are things that I cannot speak of, and there are things that I will not. Do you understand?”

 

Again Bilbo nodded, biting his lip and trying to stop all his hope from deserting him completely.

 

“But come.” Balin smiled a secret smile. “I think I may have some idea of your questions, and I promise to help as best I can.”

 

Not feeling particularly brave – in fact, just the opposite – Bilbo kept his eyes on the pattern of the thick woollen blanket draped over his legs. After a moment of furious internal conflict, he decided that the best course of action was to speak plainly.

 

“Thorin has decided to court me.”

 

When he chanced a quick glance at Balin, he noted that the Dwarf didn’t look surprised in the slightest. In fact, his nod was quite satisfied. “And what is it you wanted to ask?”

 

“I…” Bilbo swallowed. “We don’t, we Hobbits don’t go through such rituals. Not like this, and I – are all Dwarf courtships so… formal?”

 

“Aye, lad. Most of the time Dwarves agree to marry and that’s that. If they want to marry in the first place, that is.” Balin chuckled. “But they may, if they so choose, go through the courting process – and that is and always will be a tradition that we will hold fast to. Thorin has chosen to court you in the way of our ancestors, and so he – and you – are bound by those rules.”

 

Bilbo made a face at this. Couldn’t Thorin have consulted with him first?

 

“Come now, lad, it’s not as bad as all that. I’ve been led to believe you’ve been given a book.” Balin’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

 

“Yes, I – how did you know that?”

 

The Dwarf let out a neat succession of smoke rings before answering. “Well, the Princess and I may have come to an agreement when we were first aware of Thorin’s intentions.”

 

Bilbo silently cursed the secrecy of Dwarves. “And when exactly was that?”

 

“Oh, it must have been early winter, if my memory doesn’t fail me.” Balin hummed contentedly as he crossed his ankles on a footstool. When Bilbo gaped at him, he said, “Don’t look so surprised; we have known Thorin for many, many years. Longer than you’ve been alive, in fact.” He winked. “It’s not so strange that we can anticipate his actions.”

 

“B-b-but that means, that means that –”

 

Balin’s eyes were kind, if concerned. “Means what, Bilbo?”

 

“He can’t have… Thorin. He.” The Hobbit pursed his lips, exhaling heavily. To begin with, he couldn’t wrap his head around the concept of the King having feelings for him, much less feelings strong enough to warrant initiating a courtship. And, and now to find out that Thorin had set his mind on Bilbo so many months ago…

 

He couldn’t – he just _couldn’t_.

 

Balin’s hand came to rest on his forearm and Bilbo had to turn his head away. Shame bit at him when he closed his eyes against the hot prickle of tears.

 

The fire crackled in the silence, and Bilbo steadied his breathing.

 

“Why is he –” Bilbo swallowed. “Why did Thorin choose the courtship?” Why not something simpler that _didn’t_ have Bilbo feeling completely out of his depth?

 

The Royal Advisor puffed on his pipe for a bit before answering. “Part of the reason is to remove doubts from the eyes of disapprovers.” He shook his head. “We Dwarves love and marry once, if at all, but there are those who think that they know Thorin’s mind better than he does himself. That, and he is King. He’s subject to public scrutiny, whether he likes it or not.”

 

“And the other part of the reason?”

 

“Well…” Balin frowned. “Put it this way, lad: how do you feel about Thorin?”

 

A little startled by the question, Bilbo nonetheless took his time considering his answer. “I… I like him very much. I would say that I love him as a friend, and that I could come to love him as a, as, as, as more.”

 

Balin didn’t look surprised. “Mmm. That’s the other reason. Thorin is what you might call a romantic.”

 

“He’s a _romantic_?” Bilbo wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “We’re – this is Thorin we’re discussing, yes?”

 

He was laughed at, though not unkindly. “Lad, no one unromantic sets out on a quest with fourteen companions to take on a dragon that’d defeated them years back.” Balin absently tapped out a rhythm on the arm of his chair. “He does not wish to compel you into anything against your will.”

 

“He never could,” Bilbo mused. They were equally stubborn, Thorin and he.

 

A laugh. “Too true, Master Baggins! You will be good for each other, I think.”

 

“Or supremely wrong.”

 

Balin shook his head, expression now grave and sad. “Bilbo, if this is about your worth, you should know that you have proved yourself many times over.”

 

“It doesn’t change the reality that I am nothing but a simple Hobbit. I’m not meant to keep the company of Kings.” His mouth twisted wryly. “By all rights I shouldn’t even be here.”

 

“Along the lines of that argument, then, you were not meant to join our Company on our quest. You shouldn’t have saved Thorin from death, and you shouldn’t have saved us from spiders and the Elvenking’s dungeon. You shouldn’t have stolen from and outwitted a mighty Fire-drake, and you shouldn’t have saved the Line of Durin.”

 

Bilbo’s ears turned red.

 

“Tell me, O’ Burglar, how you are unworthy of our King when you have managed all these great deeds?”

 

Sounding sullen even to his own ears, Bilbo muttered, “I was not seeking praise.”

 

“That would be most unlike you,” Balin agreed. “I was merely trying to allay your irrational doubts. And please,” he said, holding up a hand, “- do not argue that they are not irrational.”

 

Bilbo, who had opened his mouth to do this very thing, closed it with a snap and a glower.

 

“If that argument does not work, then I ask you this: do you trust Thorin?”

 

The word was out of his mouth before he could even consider the question fully. “Yes.” Always. Forever.

 

“Then hold fast to that trust. He has considered his feelings very carefully.” A note of pride entered Balin’s voice. “It took him almost four months to fully commit to courting you and you alone, Bilbo. Surely that counts for something.”

 

And it did. It really did. Bilbo twisted one corner of the blanket in his hands, certain that Thorin never entered into any course of action impetuously. (Well, unless his temper was involved – or the dragon sickness – but neither of those was applicable in these circumstances.)

 

“Balin, I… every time a Dwarf has mentioned their spouse to me, they’ve called them their ‘One’. Does that – what does that mean, exactly?”

 

Balin smiled and ran a hand over the pattern of his braided belt. “We are a race that loves fiercely, Master Hobbit. Once we set our heart on something, or someone, we will settle for nothing else.”

 

Bilbo thought his own heart may have skipped a beat.

 

“We call our loves our One because we give our hearts only once. We are jealous folk, yes, but we are ever faithful.”

 

It was then that the terror returned to Bilbo, forcing its way down his throat and burning him from the inside out. How could he be the recipient of such attentions from anyone, much less a great King? How could he ever hope to return such affection?

 

What if he could not?

 

Before he could think about it, he’d jumped to his feet, mindlessly blathering excuses and busily folding the blanket so he didn’t have to look at Balin.

 

The advisor wasn’t quite willing to let him go, however.

 

“Forgive me, Bilbo, but I think I must first clarify; you’ve consented to Thorin’s courtship, haven’t you?” At the nod he received, Balin smiled encouragingly. “Then I suggest you let things run their course. Trust in your judgement, and trust in Thorin’s. That’s all you can do.”

 

The words were meant to give him confidence, but Bilbo felt that he was anything but. His mind was churning with a dizzying combination of fear and anticipation; ‘letting things run their course’ seemed to be a daunting prospect. Despite Dís’ (and Balin’s) present, he was sure that he’d be ill-prepared.

 

Placing the blanket on the arm of the chair, Bilbo kept his eyes on Balin’s beard as he murmured his thanks. “I think it’s best if I take my leave.”

 

Thick fingers closed around his upper arm in a gentle grip. “If nothing else, Bilbo… take heart in that there are thirteen Dwarves in Erebor who support you fully.”

 

Warmed to the tips of his toes, Bilbo temporarily pushed aside his worries and smiled widely. “Thank you, Balin. And good evening.”

 

“Good evening, lad.”

 

* * *

 

_As the days passed, Nalir would continue to call on Broll at his forge, if only to wish him a good day, or to share something about herself. Three moons passed before Broll realised that he found himself looking forward to these visits. To his surprise, he also became conscious of the fact that, should these visits cease, he would miss them._

_He would miss Nalir._

_He would miss her slightly-dented helm, he would miss her strange wooden braid beads, and he would miss her wry wit._

_Unfamiliar with these emotions, Broll sought the counsel of close friends. They teased him, as friends are wont to do, chucking him under the chin and asking if he should like to learn how to write poetry._

_Love. The beginnings of it, at least, had taken root in Broll's soul, running through him like the veins of mithril through a mountain – and likewise as everlasting._

_Armed with this new awareness, Broll could not find rest that night. He lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling, mind full of thoughts of the brightness of Nalir's beard – and next found himself in his forge, tools in hand._

_"Even if her love is a tenth of what I feel now, she still came to me every day. Even when I spurned her attentions, she persevered." And so his respect grew, as did his love. His hammer came down in an arc, again and again and again, until night turned to dawn and the mountain awakened._

_When the usual time came, Broll met Nalir at the door and presented her with his first gift to her; a simple curved dagger, with citrines and topaz set into its hilt._

_She wore it for all her days._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I've started including dates at the start of the chapters. This's because the courtship spans a long time, and I'm not good at making it very clear unless I state it outright ;)
> 
> You'll see.


	3. 03 - Sea Foam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli means well, he really does.

_There are no finer craftsmen on Middle-Earth than amongst the Children of Mahal. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that our kind holds craft in the highest of regards. As great miners, we may wish to gift our partners with flawless jewels or gems unearthed by our own hands. A master of the forge may choose to create light hauberks, or breastplates, or swords, or axes. Beads and clasps may be fashioned to adorn hair and beard. And there are yet many other trades of our people that may serve as more than adequate inspiration._

_Once the partner has accepted the courtship, the suitor has to present a gift of their own making within twoscore days, else be deemed unsuitable and irresponsible. This gift must not only be beautiful and functional, it must convey clearly the worth of the partner to the suitor._

_After all, how can an unshaped ingot of gold or an uncut diamond yet unfree from its coal compare to a copper locket with the likeness of one’s suitor hand-etched upon its face?_

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Chapter Two: Pertaining to the Role of Craft_

 

* * *

 

_April, 2943 T.A._

 

“Skipping stones?” Fíli wrinkled his nose. “Is there a purpose to such a thing?”

 

Bilbo shrugged a single shoulder. “It’s fun. I used to go down to Bywater Pool with my cousins and we’d have picnics by the shore and try to outscore each other.” He smiled a little wistfully, and wondered when he’d visit the Shire again.

 

“‘S it like your conkers, then?” Kíli asked.

 

“No, that’s a different game,” Bilbo replied absently. “I could show you, but I don’t think there are any horse-chestnut trees here.”

 

“You need trees to play?” Kíli sounded dumbfounded.

 

“No you –” Bilbo laughed a little. “Never mind. Ask me again sometime later.”

 

He was given a doubtful look, but the subject was nevertheless dropped.

 

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, shining brightly over Dale and Erebor. Groups of mayflies danced around each other over the swaying grass and the shimmering water. As the three of them came to a shallow-looking section of the river, Bilbo stopped.

 

“Here,” he announced happily.

 

Fíli and Kíli set their burdens down on the ground, and Bilbo sat cross-legged so he could distribute the food they’d brought. It had been his idea to have lunch outside Erebor’s walls, and the two princes had been only too happy to escape.

 

As Fíli explained over a ripe pear, “We’re still young enough to get away with such things. And it isn’t like we’re sneaking off every day.”

 

“Not like when we were Dwarflings,” Kíli snickered. He lay on the grass with his arms behind his head, having scoffed his food within five minutes. “We used to drive Mother mad.”

 

_Like they still do now_ , Bilbo thought, but said, “You didn’t find your lessons to your liking, I’m guessing.”

 

Both wrinkled their noses at the same time, startling Bilbo into a laugh.

 

“They were exceedingly boring,” Kíli said. “Basic arithmetic and politics and other stupid things. Can you blame us for preferring to pretend to be great warriors and explore until the sun set?”

 

Bilbo didn’t snort at this because he’d been the same as a Hobbitling, worrying his father and uncaringly wandering the East Farthing woods. That, and he’d just taken a bite of his sandwich, and snorting would result in choking.

 

“In the end Uncle came up with the solution.” Fíli took a long drink of water. “He threatened to discontinue our weapons training if we continued being badly behaved.”

 

“He was a spiteful Dwarf, even then,” Kíli said morosely.

 

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo pointed out, “It worked.”

 

“Oh, yes. We liked our lessons with him. We didn’t get to see him very often when we were Dwarflings.”

 

But hadn’t Thorin basically been their father figure? Bilbo voiced this question as he sliced an apple for Kíli.

 

It was the younger prince who answered. “True enough, but he was still busy with supporting us. It didn’t leave him with much free time, but he spent that with us.” His voice was muffled when he said, “Thanks, Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo made a face at the juice running down Kíli’s chin, but didn’t bother to mention it. The three of them lapsed into silence then, even dozing in the sun for a time. Kíli was the first to get antsy, picking up a short stick and going through the motions of fighting an imaginary enemy. Bilbo, at Fíli’s urging, was teaching the crown prince how best to skip stones.

 

“Maybe you should ask Thorin about his experiences when he was younger,” Kíli suggested out of the blue, waggling his eyebrows. “Y’know, when you two spend time together. You _do_ spend time together, right?”

 

“Not that it’s information that should concern you, but yes. We do.” He and Thorin did meet each other more often than when compared to before the courtship – although Bilbo was still a little put out at the lack of physical contact the whole thing entailed.

 

“Seeing as we’re family, I think it _is_ our business,” Fíli said, and laughed at the wry look the Hobbit shot him.

 

“Has he given you the first gift, yet?” Kíli asked eagerly, tossing his ‘sword’ aside and jogging over to the riverbank. “Will you show it to us?”

 

“You seem exceedingly interested in your uncle’s business,” Bilbo commented dryly.

 

Kíli smiled at Bilbo. “I think it’s grand! I'll have someone other than Fíli to accompany me during all these silly feasts and ceremonies.” He leaned down and faux whispered, “Between you and me, I think Fíli likes them. He does enjoy a bit of pomp and circumstance. Makes him feel important.”

 

Fíli kicked Kíli in the shin. “Our presence is necessary. Just because you're hopelessly irresponsible…”

 

“What's wrong with feasts?” Bilbo asked. He'd attended a few himself – most notably the one in celebration of the Dwarves' victory and the reclamation of Erebor – and he’d quite liked them. Thorin didn't bother with long speeches, and the food and mead were always good.

 

Fíli handed Bilbo a flat river stone, smooth and cool and perfect for skimming. “There's nothing wrong with –”

 

“They're terrible!” Kíli exclaimed, still hopping in place as he rubbed at his shin. “You've not sat with us at the head table before; you don't know how it is.”

 

“He has sat with us,” Fíli said, frowning at his brother. “As have the rest of the Company.”

 

“Ah, yes, but that was the once.” Kíli shook his forefinger. “Now we have the ‘esteemed’ company of dreary old lords who can't tell their elbows from their bums.”

 

Bilbo snorted at this unflattering description, while Fíli merely rolled his eyes. “They are Dwarves of great importance and repute –”

 

“That's certainly what they think.”

 

Fíli didn't dispute this, although he sighed.

 

“Don't you two sit together, though? Surely that helps with the boredom.” Bilbo sent a stone on its way, failing again to skip it to the other side of the little river.

 

Kíli shook his head, forever-unkempt hair flying this way and that. “We are seated on either side of Thorin. At any rate, it is ‘impolite’ to solely converse with your kin when there are others present.” He brightened. “That's why it's great that you may be joining us at that table as well, Bilbo.”

 

The Hobbit blushed hotly. “Even _if_ that possibility comes to pass, wouldn't I be considered kin at that point?”

 

A pause, and Bilbo looked up. Kíli’s expression suggested that he hadn't taken that prospect into account. But he shrugged almost immediately after, face melting back into its usual good cheer. “It matters not. There'll still be someone to suffer along with me.” He winked.

 

Bilbo returned the smile, but found that it didn't feel very genuine.

 

“Anyway, you'll definitely like it in the East Wing, Bilbo. The rooms there are much bigger than what you have now. Huge things. You can't even see the ceilings they're so high.”

 

Bilbo just nodded absently. He was sure that he’d be appropriately amazed when he saw it for himself – Dwarf architecture was always awe inspiring – but for now he concentrated on Fíli’s attempts at beating him.

 

“And of course you'll be sharing Thorin's quarters –”

 

The stone Bilbo had been holding fell into the water with an unceremonious splash.

 

“– which are the absolute best of all the rooms. We've gone in there, haven't we, Fíli? I think the bed can fit the entire Company, Gandalf included!”

 

The older prince looked amused. “Not quite the entire Company, I think. You forget Bombur is one our number.”

 

Bilbo pulled himself out of his stunned silence to level both brothers with a frown. “That is unkind,” he chided.

 

Kíli laughed while Fíli patted Bilbo's shoulder. “He'd be the first to acknowledge his roundness, Bilbo. He doesn't mind at all.”

 

He drew himself up to his full height (which still left him shorter than most full-grown Dwarves), intent on delivering a lecture – if only Kíli hadn't continued with his exuberant explanation.

 

“And of course there are two fireplaces since the bed chambers are so big – you know quite well how cold the mountain can get. There are bookcases along the walls, although Thorin does not read much as you do, Learned Hobbit,” Kíli teased, hopping from rock to rock as per a path visible only to his eyes.

 

“There’ll be place for your books, is what he means,” Fíli said amusedly as he bent to touch his toes.

 

“Yes, exactly. And even if there wasn’t, I’m sure our uncle would be more than willing to provide a veritable forest of bookshelves for you.”

 

Bilbo looked away from that wicked grin, unnerved.

 

“In any case, I think you’ll like the walls best – they all depict various events in the history of our people. In my quarters, my walls show the discovery of the Arkenstone in copper and quartz and ivory. Obviously it’s a newer addition than all the other rooms.”

 

Fíli made a triumphant noise as he unearthed another suitable stone, tossing it over to Bilbo easily. “The walls in my chambers depict the many deeds of Nalir Sunbeard. Did you know she also preferred using two swords? I think Mother made sure I got those rooms specially.”

 

Before he could stop himself, Bilbo asked, “And in Thorin’s quarters?”

 

“The creation of the Dwarves. Apparently Uncle was fond of the murals even as a wee Dwarfling.” Kíli, having wandered back towards Bilbo and Fíli, now clambered up onto his brother’s back. “We say it’s because he likes the veins of gold that streak the floors.”

 

Fíli didn’t appear to react to Kíli’s antics beyond leaning forwards to compensate for his weight. Kíli just grinned and wrapped his arms around Fíli’s neck, legs around Fíli’s waist. He then rested his chin on Fíli’s head and stared out in the direction of Dale.

 

To Bilbo’s displeasure, he wasn’t done with his too-detailed report on the royal suite.

 

“The washroom is almost entirely carved from marble, except for one wall which is silver, polished to make a mirror, and edged with obsidian. Can you imagine? A whole _wall_! The bath itself is sunk into the floor; it’s almost as big as the bed, if you can believe it. The Dwarves who designed and built the room made sure to obtain the finest semiprecious stones for the floor inlay. The effect is quite pleasant on bare feet.” Kíli frowned. “I’m not sure if that applies to Hobbit feet, though.”

 

Bilbo very carefully didn’t reply to this, standing as he was on numerous pebbles with cool water lapping at his toes.

 

“Then there are the various antechambers that branch off; Thorin’s study, a room for weapons and armour, rooms for children of the royal couple – not that you’ll need those. I suppose you’re lucky in that sense, eh?”

 

“But…” Bilbo’s forehead crinkled miserably. “That just seems unnecessarily big.”

 

“It’s for two people, silly Hobbit.” Kíli took one a patronising tone. “That’s what happens when two Dwarves – or a Dwarf and a Hobbit – are wed, in case you were unaware.”

 

Ah, but he _was_ aware. Now almost agonizingly so. If he and Thorin continued on with the courting, if they were betrothed and eventually married, then… Then they would share the same rooms, the same bath, the same bed. He would be living with Thorin, whom he had not even kissed before.

 

Bilbo wondered if the air had suddenly gotten thinner.

 

Thanks to the book, Bilbo knew that the next step of their courtship was for Thorin to give him a present made with his own hands. The King still had a week left to do so.

 

In the meantime, they had spoken to each other and spent time in each other’s company. Bilbo would describe their interactions as rather normal, albeit with a crackling undertone to all their actions. Neither had forgotten that they were courting, and so they were very careful with their words and their conduct.

 

Bilbo worried, though. He worried that his current feelings towards Thorin would never change or develop into something deeper and more meaningful. It’d been almost a month since he’d accepted the King’s courtship, and he was afraid that he would never see Thorin as a lover, only a friend.

 

And now, thanks to this conversation with his suitor’s nephews, it had now dawned on him that there were yet more things to consider. Thorin was the King Under the Mountain. If Bilbo married him, then the way of life he was so comfortable with would change.

 

He wasn’t completely sure he liked the sound of that.

 

Kíli, unaware of the Hobbit’s inner turmoil, was still nattering away. “I suppose you can ask Mother, since I’m not sure what the position of Consort entails. Presumably you’ll have to accompany Thorin for all official ceremonies. Don’t know about council meetings though – mayhap you’ll function as an extra advisor? What do you think, Fíli?”

 

“I think – Bilbo? You alright?”

 

Before Bilbo could reply – or indeed, draw a breath – Kíli said dismissively, “He’s fine. But don’t you think Mother will be happy to have Bilbo with her at meetings? She’s always saying how boring they are, and you know how much she likes Bilbo –”

 

Bilbo threw the stone in his hand, letting it clatter noisily against the rocky riverbank. Meetings and consorts and too-big beds! Bah to them all!

 

He was quite sure he could remember the route back to Erebor’s front gates, and the guards were well aware of who he is, so there’d be no trouble getting back in. Bilbo’s eyes flicked towards the road.

 

Fíli jostled Kíli – who was still clutching at his brother like a spider – to get him to shut his mouth. It was clear that he was too late, though. The damage was done. Ignoring his brother's protests, Fíli said gently, “Bilbo –”

 

“Please don’t follow me,” Bilbo begged, and hurried away.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo wasn’t very surprised when Fíli managed to find him some hours later. He supposed that if he _really_ hadn’t wanted to be found, he’d have just slipped on his lovely Ring and sat in his own room.

 

“Is there room for one more?”

 

Bilbo nodded. He didn’t look up from his notes.

 

Fíli seated himself, drawing his knees to his chest and somehow managing to squash himself so that his heels were braced against the edge of the bench. “What are you writing?” he asked kindly.

 

The parchment crinkled.

 

Bilbo tried to calm his fluttering heart. It had been a simple question, asked innocently enough. Fíli had no idea what these scrawlings meant to Bilbo… and what they _could_ mean in the future.

 

His quill creaked and Bilbo had to concentrate on loosening his grip.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

Sighing, he said quietly, “I’m writing about our adventure.”

 

“Oh, but that’s wonderful. Are you going to let us read it?”

 

“I’ll have to finish it first. Might take a while.” _Might never be finished_ , he thought sourly.

 

Fíli bumped their shoulders comfortably. “Perhaps when you do, you can read it to the Company. I’m sure they’re all just itching for a reason to spend time together.”

 

When. Fíli had said when, and not if.

 

“You must make sure to mention Kíli’s battle prowess, though. He’d like that.”

 

Not knowing how to respond, exactly, Bilbo nodded and smoothed the corner of his page, where he’d sketched one of Radagast’s rabbits.

 

“You do know that he’s an idiot, right? He doesn’t often think before he speaks.” Bilbo glanced to the side sharply but Fíli wasn’t looking at him. Instead, the crown prince was busy redoing one of his side-braids. “I explained what he’d done, and he truly is sorry.”

 

Feeling utterly wretched, Bilbo said, “I didn’t mean to –”

 

“You did nothing wrong, Bilbo,” Fíli said firmly, cutting him off. “Your response was perfectly reasonable.”

 

“Oh, yes. Running away from my problems, isn’t that just courageous of me?”

 

“We can’t be brave all the time.” Fíli secured his braid and dropped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Come. Lay your troubles on me, perhaps I can help.”

 

He was shaking his head before Fíli could even finish his offer. “I couldn’t. It’d be unfair of me.”

 

“It’s hardly unfair if I offered my ear in the first place.” Fíli smiled down at him. “But if you’re not going to start, shall I? Perhaps you can tell me which it is you’re really afraid of: marriage, or marriage to Thorin?”

 

His jaw went slack before he could stop himself, and then he spluttered, “T-t-that’s not it at all!”

 

“Really? You only seemed to get agitated once my dear brother started bringing up your potential future. Do you really think I can’t see that you are bothered by the courtship?”

 

This was an unfairly astute observation, and Bilbo carefully laid the quill on the bench beside him, making sure it ran perfectly parallel to his thigh. He noted that he had gotten ink on his fingers. He’d need to scrub the stains out before dinner; otherwise it’d just be unhygienic –

 

“Do you think you _owe_ this to Thorin?” Fíli asked seriously, breaking his rambling thoughts. “Because if that is the case I’d strongly urge you to put a stop to it.”

 

Bilbo looked horrified. “ _No_! That’s not – I’d never agree to such a thing, and neither would Thorin!”

 

Fíli only nodded, satisfied. “Then I’ll ask again – what is it you’re really afraid of?”

 

The Hobbit put his head down, coils of shame wrapping around his throat and making it difficult for him to speak. He tried, all the same. “I am… I’ve only ever seen myself as a bachelor, Fíli. Not to say that I’ve not had dalliances in the past – few as they were – but nothing long-lasting, you see? I was always aware of that, and it didn’t bother me at all.”

 

“But the possibility of this permanency with Thorin does?”

 

He nodded once, shortly, and felt a little bolder when Fíli’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “What if I’m not the marrying type? That could be why I’ve never done so all this time.”

 

“Or it could merely be that you haven’t found your One before this.”

 

Bilbo laughed weakly. “Now that’s another problem.”

 

There was no reaction from Fíli beyond a slight shifting, but Bilbo could tell that he was curious.

 

“I’m not a Dwarf. I’m a Hobbit.” Bilbo glanced about, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. “I don’t think we have Ones.”

 

“That does not mean you cannot love.”

 

Bilbo was suddenly struck with the absurd impulse to shatter his inkbottle against the floor. He ignored the temptation, swallowing heavily. “What if I cannot?” he whispered.

 

Fíli’s arm withdrew slightly as he turned to face Bilbo – not that the Hobbit looked at him. “What do you mean?”

 

He fingered the inkbottle unhappily, hands shaking. “What if I don’t – can’t – fall in love with Thorin? What then?”

 

“Bilbo, look at me.”

 

He complied, helplessly. Fíli stared at him with every ounce of his quiet intensity, stared at him with the light-coloured eyes he shared with his mother and uncle.

 

“If you do not fall in love with Thorin, then that’s that. You will not be faulted, and you should not fault yourself.” When Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, Fíli held up a finger. “You don’t owe Thorin anything, remember?”

 

“And what if m-marriage changes us? What if we grow apart, then, after realising we no longer care for each other?”

 

At this, Fíli’s lips quirked into a smile. “And why would you complain of change, O Grocer-turned-Burglar?”

 

“I was never a burglar. Or a grocer, for that matter,” Bilbo grumbled half-heartedly, before he squinted up at Fíli. “You’re surprisingly wise.”

 

“It’s not hard, being related to Kíli. Just have to shine by comparison.” He winked, and then his expression softened to fond concern. “Do you feel better?”

 

“I feel a fool, actually. I keep panicking needlessly.”

 

“Your paradigms are shifting,” Fíli explained, waving his free arm expansively. “It’s only natural.”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “‘Paradigms’?”

 

“Ori taught me that one.” He snickered, and then sobered. “But I think you need not worry, Bilbo. When Dwarves fall in love, our feelings do not wane. Not until we die.” He waited until the Hobbit nodded before he smiled and turned his head to face down the corridor. Bilbo frowned when Fíli let out a whistle similar to the call of a cardinal.

 

“What are you –?” He didn’t complete the question because it was then that he caught sight of Kíli, loping towards them, shoulders hunched.

 

Kíli glanced at his brother, who nodded at him encouragingly. “Bilbo, I’m – I’m sorry I was so overenthusiastic earlier.”

 

“It’s, it’s fine, Kíli. I can’t and don’t blame you for it.”

 

The dark-haired Dwarf shook his head. “I should’ve shut up though,” he argued. “Or realised that you were ill at ease –”

 

“All is forgiven. Honestly.” Bilbo was rewarded with a brilliant smile, which fell not seconds later as Kíli hung his head.

 

“I just… I really like the idea of you being family.” Dark eyes peered through a curtain of dark hair, and Bilbo felt his heart splinter.

 

Desperately, he patted the empty bench on his other side. Kíli chose to sprawl at his brother’s feet, chin on Fíli’s knee.

 

“I rather thought,” Bilbo said carefully, resting a hand on Kíli’s head, “that we were already family.”

 

Fíli’s arm tightened around him and Kíli looked suddenly happy. Bilbo felt a powerful surge of love towards them both; never mind that they were older than him, he vowed that no one would hurt either of the two brothers.

 

Then Fíli and Kíli ruined the moment by grinning slyly and asking, “Can we call you Uncle Bilbo, then?”

 

* * *

 

“You are well?”

 

Bilbo briefly considered refraining from pointing out that they’d seen each other only yesterday. Then he didn’t refrain.

 

Thorin had the decency to look (very) slightly abashed. “I only meant to be polite.”

 

“You aren’t usually,” Bilbo pointed out teasingly, snickering when Thorin grumbled to himself.

 

“Continue insulting me, Halfling, and I’ll not give you your gift.”

 

“And make you miss the opportunity to show off?” Bilbo grinned as he was scowled at.

 

“I will take this, then,” Thorin said, referring to the box tucked under his arm. “Since I know what’s inside, I know I’ll enjoy it thoroughly.”

 

Bilbo chortled. “Kíli was right. You _are_ spiteful.”

 

Thorin huffed. “Are you going to apologise to me?”

 

“Oh, alright. I’m sorry I teased you.” He paused. “Though you’re still spiteful.”

 

“Here, then, ungrateful burglar of mine.” Thorin didn’t pass the box to Bilbo, instead opening it and presenting its contents. “My gift to you, crafted by my hand. I pledge to show the same care and dedication in all aspects of our possible shared future.”

 

Bilbo made a worshipful sound.

 

“Thorin, it’s beautiful.”

 

“I know you have your own pipes, but… I do not think you have one of this same make.”

 

“Nothing I own comes close,” Bilbo said, carefully lifting the white pipe from its case. He peered at the figures carved along its length from its bit to the bowl. A surprisingly lifelike Smaug curled around the stem, and tiny eagles danced around the rim of the bowl.

  
“It’s made of what we call _‘azahyi-shuthû_. Sea foam, because of its colour.” Thorin reached out to touch the great bear Bilbo assumed was Beorn. Bilbo noted that the King very carefully made sure their fingers didn’t brush against each other. “It is quite rare in this part of Middle Earth.”

 

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” It was incredibly light and was the perfect size for Hobbit hands. Bilbo was in wonder at Thorin’s skill; how had he managed such a level of gorgeous detail as this? And were those – gracious, were those _tiny honeybees_ near the miniature stone giants? “You’ve truly made a masterpiece.”

 

“It gladdens my heart that this gift pleases you,” Thorin declared formally. As soon as he did, he seemed to relax slightly, allowing a smile to curl the corners of his mouth. “I spent too long agonising over what to give you,” he admitted, letting his hand fall to his side.

 

“You could have given me a half-eaten apple and I’d still be pleased,” Bilbo muttered, ducking his head. Then he frowned consideringly. “Well, perhaps not a _half_ -eaten one.”

 

Thorin laughed. The sound of it was throaty and deep and infectious, enough to elicit an answering smile from Bilbo. Amusement sparkled in the King’s pale eyes, and as Bilbo stared, his treacherous mind pointedly supplied him with the thought that Thorin was more beautiful than the gift in his hands.

 

And he’d had fears he would not fall in love.

 

“Come,” Thorin said, lightly resting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “It would please me if we shared a pipe.”

 

Bilbo was quite sure that Thorin was unaware what such an intimate action meant in Hobbit circles – but he didn’t much care for anything beyond the pipe in his hand and the Dwarf beside him. Whether deliberately or not, they were seated so that Thorin’s side was flush against his, warm and solid. Bilbo did his best not to lean into that heat, just as he fought to keep a blush from staining his cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure how successful he was in either undertaking.

 

The cool and dry taste the pipe gave the smoke was a momentary distraction, if a pleasurable one. But more pleasurable was the calm line of Thorin’s shoulders and the relaxed expression on his face that he seemed only to reveal to people he trusted.

 

Most pleasurable of all was the rumble of Thorin’s rich voice as he talked about the time he and Dís had gone to the Gulf of Lhûn when Fíli and Kíli were Dwarflings.

 

“They learned to swim in the sea,” Thorin said wistfully, resting the stem of his pipe on his lower lip. “And Dís complained to me that there was sand in their bed for weeks after.”

 

Bilbo nodded. “I can see that being a downside of visiting the beach.”

 

“You've never been?”

 

“Are you actually surprised, Thorin?” Bilbo snorted. “You are aware that I'd never been more than 30 miles away from my own home before I met you, right?”

 

“I… didn't think that the radius was so small.” He coughed awkwardly and then said, “If you wanted to know, the sea is nothing special. The scenery is akin to your view of the Greenwood when you climbed that tree: endlessly boring. The water is salty and, as I mentioned, the sand gets everywhere.”

 

He rolled his eyes. Thorin probably thought he was being comforting. “I'm sure Fíli and Kíli enjoyed themselves.”

 

Thorin nodded. “We continued to take them there, when circumstances allowed it. As time went on, our visits stopped. We all had our duties to see to.”

 

Wanting to steer the conversation away from this melancholy, Bilbo said, “I’ve always meant to ask…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“The Blue Mountains are rather close to the Shire – closer than Erebor, at any rate –”

 

“Both are in Eriador, for one,” Thorin commented, amused.

 

Bilbo clicked his tongue in annoyance before he could stop himself, but Thorin only waved a hand in apology. After a moment of puffing on his pipe, Bilbo put aside his mild irritation to return to his question. “Did you ever wish to venture into the Shire?”

 

A shake of the head. “I confess I did not have much of an impression of Hobbits.”

 

“But that’s changed.”

 

Thorin didn’t even look at him. “No.”

 

“No?”

 

“They’re best left alone, I think. They have no care for anything outside their green country, creatures of comfort and softness that they are – but we cannot begrudge them their simple-mindedness.”

 

“I see.” Bilbo wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or glare – though he knew that Thorin wasn’t being intentionally malicious.

 

He was perceptive enough to notice the stiffness of the shoulder pressed against his, however. “Bilbo?”

 

Bilbo didn’t answer verbally and instead pointedly nudged Thorin’s boot with his bare foot (he ignored the wicked feeling this gave him). To his credit, Thorin didn’t take long to realise the blunder he’d made.

 

“Ah,” he said.

 

A little vindictively Bilbo asked, “Forgot about me, did you?”

 

Thorin did not answer immediately, puffing busily on his amber-coloured pipe. When he finally spoke, it was slow and deliberate. “In my defence, you are not a typical Hobbit.”

 

“But I used to be.”

 

“But before that you weren’t.” Thorin carefully nudged the bottom of Bilbo’s foot – probably unaware that this was also significant ‘courting behaviour’ among Hobbits. “When Gandalf suggested you, he said that you were neat-handed and clever, though shrewd, and far from rash. And that you had great courage.” He cleared his throat. “That doesn’t strike me as very typical.”

 

Bilbo’s cheeks had warmed uncomfortably at this description, but he stubbornly insisted that Hobbits were not ‘simple’. (Not all of them, anyway.)

 

“I didn’t mean it to be insulting. As my Company probably attested, Dwarves are not always the sharpest axes in the armoury.”

 

“Yourself included,” Bilbo snarked.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Thorin’s smile was tiny and yet conveyed supreme smugness with a side of teasing. “I’ve made at least _one_ good choice in recent weeks.”

 

Bilbo started coughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pipe Thorin makes for Bilbo is made from meerschaum (hydrated magnesium silicate), which does mean 'sea foam'. Used to be quite popular in the world of pipe making, because of the flavour it gave the smoke, and because you could carve it into ridiculously detailed shapes. No, really, go check out Google images.
> 
> 'azahyi-shuthû literally translates to 'sea-cloud' - Bren and I couldn't find a word for foam, so we improvised. It's really bitcin' to have a friend who knows Neo-Khuzdul, let me tell you.
> 
>  
> 
> So begins the courtship proper. Any ideas what'll happen in the next chapter? Winner gets a sneak peek.


	4. 04 - Izindigad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are hard to let go of.

_…is not wholly unexpected that a suitor should endeavour to spend as much time with their partner as is permissible. One is only able to ascertain compatibility between couples by doing so, after all, and bonding activities may further serve to deepen the affections of the partner…_

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Chapter Three: Pertaining to Interaction between Courting Partners_

 

* * *

 

_May, 2943 T.A._

 

“Bilbo! I’ve found you!”

 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at the joyful cry but didn’t look up from his work. “You don’t have to shout, Kíli. I am the only one here.”

 

Kíli ignored the admonishment, voice only a shade softer when he asked, “And why _are_ you here?”

 

“Because if I did this in my rooms, likely I’d ruin one of the tables.” Bilbo set aside his hammer and looked up at the prince, who was leaning over the workbench, nose scrunched up in curiosity. “Did you want something?”

 

“What’s this?” Kíli asked, pointing at the rectangular sheet of copper that lay flat in front of Bilbo. “Who’s it for? Is it – is it for Thorin?”

 

Bilbo snorted. “No.”

 

“Who else could it be?” The pout Kíli sported was impressive, if Bilbo was inclined to be amazed or affected by such things. “You can tell me if it is for Uncle, you know; I’m perfectly capable of keeping secrets.”

 

“Not according to that selfsame uncle,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. He grinned unrepentantly when the young Dwarf prince frowned. “At any rate, the answer’s still no. This isn’t for him.”

 

“Then?” Kíli’s voice took on the edge of a whine. “Who’s it for?”

 

“Heavens, you’re irritatingly curious, aren’t you?” Bilbo rolled his eyes at the look this earned him. “It’s for my cousin Drogo and his fiancée Primula. They’ve sent me a letter, informing me that they’re planning to get married in late autumn.” He picked up the second-smallest metal punch and peered at its end. “So I thought I’d send along a present.”

 

“Isn’t this the same cousin you gave your house to?”

 

“He is indeed.”

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Kíli muttered rebelliously. “Then we could’ve had an excuse to visit the Shire once in awhile.”

 

Bilbo laughed. “I don’t think Bag End would survive another visit by Dwarves.”

 

“Why not? We left it perfectly clean afterwards, Uncle insisted.”

 

“Oh, did he?” Bilbo smirked as he finished off a neat line of holes. “Well, at least he did something right, the rude so-and-so.”

 

“Why are you using copper?” Kíli asked, resting his elbow on the workbench so he could place his chin in his hand. “Why not silver or gold?”

 

“Because I want to give Segnar as clear of an idea of what I want.” Segnar was the Dwarf (and Ajoure expert) he’d commissioned to make his wedding gift for Primula and Drogo. “So I decided to make a cheap example. Does that make sense, little Kíli?”

 

He looked displeased. “I’m not little.”

 

Bilbo managed to work in silence for a few long moments before Kíli interrupted again.

 

“Bilbo, may I ask a question?”

 

“You’ve been asking questions since you arrived, O’ Prince. But go on.”

 

“What are you actually making?”

 

The Hobbit smiled, and picked up two wooden pegs. “Fetch me that candle. The lit one.”

 

The copper sheet was soft enough for Bilbo to curve, forming a cylinder that he held in place with the pegs. He placed it over the candle and smiled at Kíli’s delighted intake of breath.

 

The light from the candle flame shone through the holes in the copper and cast flickering patterns across nearby surfaces. A brighter light source would have given a better effect, Bilbo mused.

 

“That’s very pretty,” Kíli said, wiggling his fingers by the ‘lantern’ and watching the play of light and shadow across them.

 

“Thank you.” Bilbo removed the pegs and set the copper back onto the table. “Needs a little more work, I think.”

 

Kíli laughed suddenly and clapped Bilbo on the back. (Luckily this didn’t send Bilbo face-first into the tabletop, unlike if it’d been Dwalin instead of Kíli.) “We’ll make a Dwarf of you yet, Bilbo! I didn’t know you were interested in metalwork of any sort.”

 

The Hobbit strove to keep his pleased smile off his face. “Well, you’re hardly the only friend I have among Ereborean Dwarves, Kíli.”

 

“I’m not a friend, I’m _family_ ,” Kíli retorted smugly. “Oh! That reminds me. You’ve been invited to dinner with us tonight.”

 

“‘Us’?”

 

“Thorin, Mother, Fíli and I,” Kíli said, counting off on his fingers. “Although, if you’re not there I rather think Thorin suddenly be busy with something or other.” His voice dropped to a faux whisper. “Meaning he’ll have dinner alone while sulking in his rooms. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”

 

“I couldn’t care less if your uncle is as much of a grump as usual,” Bilbo lied. “It’ll be nice to see Dís, though.”

 

Kíli had started juggling three chisels. He really was incapable of sitting still. “I’m going to tell Thorin you said that,” he sing-songed.

 

“Do it and I’ll tell your mother to recount the tale of a certain prince and his year-long refusal to wear breeches.”

 

Instead of the expected surprise or distress, Kíli looked put out. Still juggling, he said, “Everyone forgets the time Fíli ran into the council room when Uncle was holding an incredibly important meeting with emissaries from the Iron Hills.”

 

“That doesn’t seem like a particularly embarrassing story,” Bilbo commented, knowing perfectly well that there was more to it.

 

“Well, he was fifty-two at the time.” The grin was clear in his voice. “And starkers.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo hid a burp behind his hand and shifted closer to the hearth, trying to warm his toes further. Dinner had been excellent; Dís and Thorin exchanged playful barbs while Fíli and Kíli tried to get away with tossing food at each other from across the table. (They didn’t get away with it, incidentally.) Bilbo’s stomach hurt a little from all his laughing, and was full of split pea and ham soup and a generous helping of sourdough bread and dry red wine. And several portions of trifle. And a wedge of hard cheese. And –

 

Someone placed a blanket over Bilbo’s shoulders, and he looked up into Fíli’s eyes.

 

“You were looking cold. Thought I’d give you this before you tried to crawl into the fire.”

 

Bilbo snorted but thanked Fíli. “It’s hardly my fault this mountain is so drafty.”

 

“You’d best not let my brother hear you say that, Bilbo,” commented Dís from where she was sitting with her youngest son. Both were peering over a gameboard set into a round stone table, taking turns to move carved marble and pewter figures. “He’ll throw a tantrum.”

 

Fíli hooted loudly with laughter, obviously amused by the image of his usually-stoic uncle stamping his feet and wailing like a spoiled Dwarfling.

 

“I can assure you, Dís,” Bilbo said, with dignity (and ignoring Fíli’s snickers), “I’m well aware of Thorin’s giant –”

 

“Perhaps I should come back later,” Thorin said.

 

“No, no, Uncle! You should sit by Bilbo while he vividly describes your – as he says – giant –”

 

“Kíli,” Dís said warningly, and he subsided with a mutinous air.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Thorin did indeed sit by Bilbo, gracefully sinking onto the bear pelt that was spread on the floor in front of the fireplace. He did not ask about Dís’ and Bilbo’s conversation, for which Bilbo was grateful.

 

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the book in Thorin’s hands. It creaked when opened.

 

“Balin suggested I familiarise myself with adit placement, since flow-through ventilation has been the subject of these last few council meetings.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what an adit was, or how its placement affected anything, and peered at the buckram cover doubtfully. “You’re reading about ventilation?” He supposed he shouldn’t pass judgement on what other people chose to read, but it did sound like a frightfully boring subject. 

 

The King snorted. “No. This is fiction.”

 

He raised an amused eyebrow. “So, instead of doing what you’re supposed to be doing, you’re reading a story book?”

 

Thorin apparently decided that this didn’t deserve an answer.

 

“What’s it about, then?”

 

He perked up a little. “This is a story about a ship captain and his quest to kill the great fish that bit off his leg many years ago. It’s told from the perspective of one of his crewmembers.”

 

“A great fish?” Bilbo rested his chin on his knees.

 

“According to the text, it was about half the size of the worm Smaug, and as white as freshly fallen snow.”

 

His eyes grew wide as saucers and wondered if there really were such creatures living in the depths of the sea. It seemed a frightening prospect.

 

“It is quite a gripping tale,” Thorin reassured, smoothing his hand over the first page. Bilbo glanced at the runes stamped in neat rows and let his mouth curl. Gripping or not, he’d not be able to read it.

 

Thorin caught the look. “I could… I could read it to you, if you’d like.”

 

He protested. “You’ll lose your place.”

 

“I’ve read this book since I was a Dwarfling, Bilbo. Rest easy I don’t mind starting again.”

 

Bilbo hid his pleased smile in the folds of his blanket. “Then I’d be happy to listen.”

 

The fond look directed at him warmed him better than the fire did, and Thorin cleared his throat.

 

“Call me Izindigad,” began Thorin.

 

His voice was, as always, deep in timbre and sent frissons of pleasure racing up the back of Bilbo’s neck. He read steadily, never once stumbling over his words or losing his train of thought, his voice pitched loudly enough that the whole room could hear. Bilbo enjoyed the caress of Thorin’s words over his skin and found himself relaxing completely; between the soft flip of pages and Fíli’s lazy fiddling, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the tale, the light from the fire flickering in front of his eyelids.

 

He wasn’t quite sure if he’d imagined the firm pressure of Thorin’s shoulder against his.

 

Bilbo was rudely brought back to wakefulness by Kíli’s triumphant crowing. If the number of toppled pewter gamepieces were any indication, he’d just beaten his mother. She frowned at the board.

 

“I must be more tired than I thought,” Dís mused, pushing the heavy coils of her hair behind her shoulders.

 

“Or I’ve gotten better,” Kíli said haughtily.

 

Dís smiled. “Or that.” She rose to her feet. “I think I will retire for the night.”

 

“So soon, sister?” Thorin asked warmly, slipping a scrap of leather between the pages of his book to keep his place. “Anyone would think you were the elder of the two of us.”

 

“Maybe if I did little more than sit on my arse all day, I’d be as awake as you are.” She grinned at the scowl Thorin levelled at her.

 

“We’ll accompany you to your room, Mother,” Fíli offered, getting to his feet. Apparently he sensed an impending squabble; Bilbo rather agreed, considering the way Thorin was puffing himself up indignantly. Fíli tucked his fiddle under one arm and offered the other to Dís.

 

Kíli took Dís’ left arm, still grinning without repent. “Goodnight, Thorin! Goodnight, Bilbo!”

 

He waved his hand (still hidden under the blanket) in farewell, while Thorin murmured his own goodnights. Dís left the family room with her sons leaning against her affectionately. Bilbo smiled at their backs, reminded of how he’d similarly clung to his mother in his early years.

 

Frankly, Bilbo was a little surprised that he and Thorin were being left alone, before realising that Thorin was hardly going to suggest anything improper. From what Bilbo had read in his book, and from Thorin’s behaviour since the start of their courting, it was quite clear that the King considered these customs of the highest importance. Not only that, he seemed to _enjoy_ the formality of it all. Bilbo didn’t really understand it.

 

Then again, he still didn’t really understand how formality and courting went hand in hand in the first place.

 

Why, if there’d been no rules reinforcing chastity and decorum, he’d be able to reach over and place his hand over Thorin’s. Thorin would then turn his hand over so they could tangle their fingers together – or perhaps he’d pull Bilbo close to rest against his broad chest. Or they’d sit with their arms around each other, Bilbo in Thorin’s lap and the blanket over both their shoulders.

 

Maybe they’d lie on the furs in front of the fire, stretched out on their sides, or with Bilbo atop Thorin, or with Thorin looming above Bilbo. Maybe Thorin would brush away the curls from Bilbo’s face, tugging on one lock of hair to watch the way Bilbo wrinkled his nose. Maybe his fingers would ghost over the lines of Bilbo’s forehead and chase the generous curve of his cheek, down to his blunt chin and his pale lips.

 

Maybe lips would follow fingers, and –

 

“Bilbo?”

 

Unaware that he’d been staring into the fire, Bilbo blinked.

 

“I must ask you something.” Thorin looked guarded. He spoke slowly, considering each word before it left his mouth, and his hands lay docile on his lap atop his book.

 

Despite the gathering seriousness in the air, the Hobbit smiled and invited, “Ask away.”

 

“Do you wish to continue with this courtship?” He held up a hand to forestall an argument when Bilbo drew in a breath. “I don’t doubt you, or your sincerity. I merely… I want to make sure you’re making the right choice.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what expression was on his face, just like he wasn’t quite sure why there was such a painful hollowness in his chest. In a tiny voice that he despised himself for using, he asked, “Have I done something wrong?”

 

“No.”

 

He clutched at the blanket around his body and gazed up at Thorin. “Then why?”

 

For as long as Bilbo had known him, Thorin had very rarely been at a loss for words. Now he looked into the flames crackling in the fireplace and clenched his fists tightly. Bilbo could hear him muttering indistinctly.

 

After long moments of almost-silence, Bilbo worriedly prompted, “Thorin?”

 

“I chose the Arkenstone over you.”

 

_You miserable Hobbit! You undersized – burglar!_

 

Bilbo shut his eyes against the pang in his heart. “And I stole it from you.”

 

_This is the Arkenstone of Thrain, the Heart of the Mountain; it is also the heart of Thorin. He values it over a river of gold. I give it to you._

 

“Your actions were well meaning. If I’d only listened to you from the beginning, then you’d not have had your hand forced.” The Dwarf rubbed his bulky ring with his thumb absentmindedly. “Instead I sent you away.”

 

“Thorin –”

 

He didn’t seem to be listening. Thorin’s heavy brow was furrowed; coupled with the tightness around his mouth he appeared more severe than usual. “Yet you came back. I didn’t deserve it.”

 

“Thorin, please, I’ve told you, all is forgiven. I never held you responsible.”

 

“I threatened to kill you! I called you a traitor!”

 

_Get down now to your friends – or I will throw you down!_

 

Bilbo swallowed, but persevered, matching Thorin tone-for-tone. “Your mind was not your own!”

 

“It was diseased, but that does not mean that I’m not to blame. The dragon sickness does not manifest idly; it preys on what is already present in the mind and augments it. That means that I –”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “I know what you are trying to say. But I want to remind you that _now_ , in this moment, you love me. Or am I wrong?”

 

Thorin looked like he’d been slapped. “No, of course I – of course I love you!”

 

“That’s all that we have to hold to.” Bilbo shifted so he was kneeling and faced Thorin fully. The blanket lay crumpled on the floor. “I don’t care what you said, or what you did. It happened in the past.”

 

“But –”

 

Abruptly losing his temper, Bilbo snapped, “Is this your way of getting me to call off the courtship?”

 

Stricken to speechlessness, Thorin shook his head, no.

 

“Are you sure? You don’t regret sending me those handkerchiefs, or making that pipe? You don’t regret sitting here with me now?”

 

“How can you say that?” He looked pained, face half hidden by a curtain of dark hair. “As I said, I love you –”

 

“Then _trust_ me. You can’t force me to do something against my will, Thorin – I thought you’d have learned _that_ from the business with the Arkenstone, at least.”

 

Thorin’s chin dipped further. “I merely thought to remind you of how I’ve wronged you. I’d happily erase the past if I could, but I can’t. I’ve doubted you, belittled you, and cast you aside. You must see, Bilbo, that I –”

 

Thorin stopped speaking, but only because Bilbo had placed his fingers against the Dwarf’s mouth.

 

“Please, Thorin. You found yourself able to forgive me when I had wronged you.” Bilbo pressed his fingers more firmly against Thorin’s lips when it looked like he would protest. “Perhaps it is time to see if you can forgive yourself.”

 

With Bilbo’s hand still over his mouth, Thorin didn’t reply out loud. He didn’t need to; the way he lowered his gaze spoke volumes and Bilbo felt as if his heart was being torn apart by hooks and harpoons.

 

He slid his fingers over Thorin’s cheek, his other hand mimicking the action on the other side so he could gently grasp both of Thorin’s ears. Tugging lightly, he brought their foreheads together. “I know it’ll be difficult. But I’ll be here. I’ll help you.”

 

There was something desperate in the way Thorin nudged their noses together, if it wasn’t already obvious by the set of his hands, painfully clenched on Bilbo’s shoulders. He did not shake or sob – Bilbo didn’t think Thorin would ever lower his barriers enough to do so openly – but he clung to Bilbo and the comfort the Hobbit freely offered.

 

“I swear to you, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, dragging his thumbs over the cuffs in the Dwarf King’s ears. “I swear I’ll be here for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but I figured there was nothing to add. Ah, Thorin, you angst so prettily.
> 
> Shoutout to all my readers; thank you especially to all who commented, hit the kudos button, and bookmarked =) I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, though you've probably guessed by my flailing.
> 
>  
> 
> So, any guesses for the next chapter? I can give you a hint: a certain Dwarf King is conspicuously absent.
> 
> Edit: Italicised lines lovingly taken from _the Hobbit_.


	5. 05 - Purple Lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chats are had and realisations are made.

_…parents are also seen as playing a fundamental role, as their approval is commonly needed before the partner acquiesces to the suitor's advances, or before the halfway point of the courtship. While Dwarves are wholly capable of making their own decisions regarding their futures (whether or not related to wooing), it is customary to seek the blessings of their elders._

_In the absence of a mother or father (as in unfortunate circumstances), a close friend or other family members may fulfil this position in their place._

_The suitor meets with their partner's family alone, and vice versa. It is a very important gathering as – presupposing consent of their children's choices – the parents may then advise and influence the final gifts of the courtship…_

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courting, Chapter Four: Pertaining to the Consequence of Family_

 

* * *

 

_June, 2943 T.A._

 

“You are aware that you’ve dined with me before, Bilbo,” Dís said, brown eyes amused. “And you have accompanied Balin on a quest. There is hardly a need to be anxious.”

 

“The circumstances are a little different now, aren’t they?” Bilbo not-quite-muttered, fiddling with his linen kerchief (one of the ones Thorin had gifted him to signal his intentions).

 

“Don’t worry, lad.” Balin reached over and patted the back of his hand. “We’ll get some food into that belly of yours, relax you a bit.”

 

He couldn’t help but smile at this jibe, nodding his thanks.

 

“For now you can tell me what you first thought when you met my brother. I do not think I’ve heard the full story, other than what my boys have told me.” Her voice turned wry, “And their accounts are usually exaggerated, as you should know.”

 

Bilbo snorted. He did indeed know, what with Kíli’s story of single-handedly taking on an entire tavern of angry Men, and Fíli’s tale of felling an elk (as big as Thranduil’s mount) armed with no more than a knife.

 

It was with this in mind that he forgot his apprehension and spoke without thinking. “I thought him rude. To be fair, I thought all the Dwarves were quite rude – barging into my Hobbit hole without invitation and completely decimating my pantry.”

 

Balin coughed discreetly into his beard as Dís raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“But, Thorin. He comes in and declares that I’m a grocer. Me! A grocer!” All the indignation that he’d first felt was coming back to him, quite fuelling his thoughtless rant. “Just, just because I’d not held a weapon before; but any fool knows that the most dangerous thing a Hobbit usually wields is a scythe!”

 

“That would have been quite frustrating,” Dís agreed, hiding a smirk behind her hand.

 

“Quite!” He shook his head, even as the door opened and food was brought in. “At the time I was unaware of it, but King or no, he shouldn’t expect everyone to be at his beck and call. The only good thing I can say about him is he had much better table manners than the rest of them!”

 

At this Balin again coughed into his beard, now to smother a laugh.

 

Bilbo started to fill his plate, the inclusion of vegetables – cauliflower and sweet corn and parsnips – lightening his heart, though only momentarily derailing his crossness.

 

“Was that truly the only agreeable element of my brother that night?”

 

“Well, I cannot deny his power,” Bilbo conceded, reaching for his ale. “He had a… a presence about him. I knew even before Gandalf introduced us that he was the leader – never mind that he arrived fashionably late. But I could see, from the way the others acted with him, from the way he carried himself, he…” Bilbo trailed off, chewing on a mouthful of bread and ham to get his thoughts in order.

 

“He inspired loyalty,” the Hobbit said finally. “These twelve Dwarves were willing to march across Middle Earth to face a dragon for him. I stood behind him most of the time, so I could not observe his expressions – but I felt his sadness. I think some part of me knew how much he blamed himself, even though I did not yet know the full story.”

 

Quiet descended over the table. Bilbo’s eyes were downcast as he let himself remember the passion of Thorin’s speech, so different to the cool indifference he’d first been offered. He himself had been halfway convinced by those words, although Bofur’s later description of Smaug had brought his Hobbit sensibilities firmly to the forefront of his mind. After that he’d been so sure that he would never leave the Shire. And then…

 

“And then there was the song,” he whispered. Oh, that _song_ –

 

“What song, Bilbo? Dís prompted.

 

He almost dropped his fork – he’d been so lost in thought that he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He looked up shyly into Dís’ and Balin’s faces, hers curious and his knowing.

 

Bilbo would not sing the song. He knew the words, yes, but he also knew he could never do it justice. (Truly, there was only one Dwarf who could.) Instead, he offered, “It is a song of Erebor, of the day Smaug came, and of the day that the Dwarves would see it returned.”

 

Help came in the form of Balin’s soft humming, and Dís nodded in recognition.

 

Emboldened, Bilbo said, “I… felt like I would do anything for that song. Like I would run across the world and, and tweak the nose of a great evil… which I suppose I did end up doing.” He laughed.

 

Dís looked pensive as she trailed a finger around the edge of her plate. “Thorin used to… he used to sing the same song to Fíli and Kíli to get them to bed. I’d get cross with him, accusing him of trying to manipulate them at such a young age.” She sighed. “Sometimes I think that’s why they followed him as readily as they did.”

 

Bilbo carefully laid his fingers on the back of Dís’ wrist, atop the bangle of woven gold she wore. “They’re alive and well.”

 

“There was every chance that they’d die,” she retorted, and then shook her head sharply. “But come. This is not the time for such talk.” The Princess took a sip of her ale. “Instead of my family, why don’t you tell us about yours, Bilbo?”

 

This sparked a thorough dissection of Hobbit genealogy and customs that lasted all the way through to dessert (sweet cherry pie with generous amounts of whipped cream). Although Bilbo had been asked various questions about the Hobbit way of life since the beginning of his stay in Erebor, this reminded him of an interrogation.

 

“Is there any significance to the colour of the ribbons?”

 

Bilbo sipped at the milk that had been served with the pie. “Not particularly. Usually they’re just colours that the couple like.”

 

 _Like blue_ , his mind helpfully supplied. _Blue is particularly fetching_.

 

“I thought they’d be like gemstones are to Dwarves.”

 

“How so?” Bilbo asked Dís.

 

She extended her hand, displaying the rings on each of her fingers. Pointing at the topmost one on her forefinger, Dís explained, “Amethyst, for example, is believed to have healing properties.” The next ring she pointed at was a complete circle of some sort of pale green stone. “Jade ensures safe travel and brings the wearer good luck. Onyx calms the mind.”

 

“And this one? The emerald?” Even Bilbo could recognise the sparkling gem that sat on Dís’ pinkie, which was as big as a robin egg.

 

“It boosts intellect and memory.” Balin rubbed his bare top lip. “I must confess, Bilbo, I’m surprised something so important doesn’t carry more weight.”

 

“You must be thinking of flowers,” he replied, smiling. “Those are even more significant than ribbons during a Hobbit wedding.”

 

Dís frowned. “No doubt they restrict your weddings to certain times of the year.”

 

“No?” Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “Why should they?”

 

“I didn’t think that flowers bloomed in the cold of winter.”

 

Ah. He tended to forget that Dwarves didn’t understand plants as Hobbits (or Men, or Elves) did. “There are some that do.” Bilbo speared his last mouthful of pie. “At any rate, winters in the Shire aren’t nearly as freezing as they are here. Wedding garlands can consist of winter-blooming flowers like orange lilies – which signify passion –, or perhaps pink phlox. Those symbolize harmony.”

 

Balin brought out his pipe and started filling its bowl. “Do you wear these garlands around your neck?”

 

“Or around your head.” Bilbo shrugged. “It’s personal preference, really.”

 

To his surprise, he learned that Dwarves didn’t adorn their hair at all when they wed. Instead they left it free. Their future spouse would be the first to put new braids during the ceremony, which worried Bilbo.

 

“My hair isn’t… long enough.”

 

“If you didn’t insist on cutting it, it would be,” Dís replied tartly.

 

He snorted instead of replying. It was true; he did cut his hair – by himself, because Dwarves found the idea of such short hair completely horrifying. Bad enough Bilbo had no beard to style. When Fíli had walked in on Bilbo with scissors in hand, he’d actually howled in anguish and startled Bilbo into dropping them.

 

“What are you _doing_? What has happened?” The blond Dwarf crossed the room in four quick strides, grabbing Bilbo’s wrists.

 

Genuinely nonplussed, Bilbo had answered, “Cutting my hair because it’s… long?”

 

Fíli had made a distressed noise as he fingered the newly snipped curls. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

 

He’d tried to keep his mirth from getting the best of him. “Did you think my hair never grows?”

 

“It’d certainly explain your lack of beard!”

 

The conversation had just degenerated from there, especially when Fíli decided to drag Bilbo to the healing wing and demanded that Óin check his ‘obviously defective brain’. Óin hadn’t even had to use his hearing aid to figure out what Bilbo had to say about _that_.

 

Once everyone had been calmed down and nerves had been soothed – though Fíli still shot wounded looks at Bilbo from time to time – it was explained to Bilbo that Dwarves only cut their hair in cases of disgrace. To have their beards shorn was the worst of punishments for a Dwarf, and to be called smooth-chinned was as grave an insult as soft-soled was to Hobbits.

 

This enabled him to unbend a little regarding Fíli’s unintentionally offensive words, though he’d been unable to stop himself from being curious. If having short hair was shameful to Dwarves, why then did Thorin have such a closely cropped beard?

 

The answer to that had been stunned silence – until a large hand landed on his shoulder.

 

“Failing your people, burglar, is the height of dishonour.”

 

As it had then, Bilbo’s heart ached at those words.

 

The too-loud sound of a goblet being set aside jarred Bilbo out of his gloomy memories; a glance into Dís’ eyes told him it’d been deliberate. He lowered his gaze, a little ashamed.

 

“Perhaps we’ll make do with clasps,” Balin said practically. “It won’t be wholly traditional, but it won’t be a traditional wedding either.”

 

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek.

 

“If there is a wedding,” Dís sniped.

 

Balin laughed at her. “You’re making it sound as if you’re against the courtship, Dís.” 

 

“Hardly.” She crossed her legs and surveyed her nails. “I’m against convincing Bilbo that he has no other choice than marrying Thorin.” Her sigh was exaggerated. “That, and I’m not sure I could in good conscience resign my dear friend to a life with my idiot of a brother.”

 

Her ‘dear friend’ snorted. “While I don’t disagree with Thorin being called an idiot, I’m certain that I can deal with him.”

 

“Can you?” Dís held his gaze, tapping her bearded chin with the tips of her fingers.

 

Bilbo was rather surprised that she had to ask – after all, the first time they’d met, Dís had walked in on a spectacular shouting match between him and Thorin. He could hardly remember what they’d been arguing about, but it had ended with Thorin throwing up his arms and giving in, if only to ‘have a little peace from beardless, meddling Halflings’.

 

Having caught sight of Dís (and having put two and two together regarding the similarities in appearance between her and Thorin), Bilbo had then taken great pleasure in pointedly greeting her. Never mind that he’d previously been nervous about making her acquaintance.

 

The sudden pallor in Thorin’s cheeks had been worth it.

 

“Do you really need to ask?” Bilbo enquired, finally.

 

Dís smirked but said nothing.

 

Balin cleared his throat. “Bilbo, have you made progress with the book? I realise it makes for dry reading, but…”

 

“Yes.” Bilbo paused before realising that his answer could be taken as agreement to Balin’s latter statement, and clarified, “Yes, I’ve finished it.” It had taken the better part of two months to do so, because it was full of meandering sentences that needed constant rereading, but he now knew the basic outline of Dwarvish courtships. (And he was only a _quarter_ of the way through said courtship…)

 

“Have you given any thought to your final gift?”

 

Dís snorted. “He still has time. And he may yet reject my brother’s advances.”

 

“It always pays to be prepared,” Balin replied, shrugging. He turned to Bilbo, expectant.

 

“I’ve, um… I’ve already started it.”

 

Balin’s smile was wide and happy. Dís hid hers behind a hand.

 

“Will you tell us what it is?” she asked.

 

Bilbo blushed. He knew that he could refuse to answer with no repercussions. Balin and Dís wouldn’t force him, no matter how curious they were.

 

He was hesitant only because he felt that acknowledging it out loud would be making marriage between Thorin and him a foregone conclusion. He knew it was a silly thought to have and that awareness only made him all the more tight-lipped, keeping his gift secret and safe.

 

This was the same hesitance, of course, that had struck him dumb when Fíli had innocently asked about his notes.

 

Bilbo took a breath.

 

“A book. I’m writing him a book.”

 

He exhaled.

 

Strangely enough, the mountain didn’t crumble. The world kept turning. And Bilbo Baggins felt something settle into place in his heart.

 

Oh. Well, that’d been a lot of bother about nothing, hadn’t it?

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had actually wanted to join Balin when the Dwarf had left, but Dís had bid him stay for a moment longer. She had kept her face carefully neutral when she’d made the request, so Bilbo had no idea what she had planned. It made him anxious. He fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the princess to return.

 

When she did, she was carrying something. Something box-shaped.

 

“I want you to have these.” Dís set the cloth covering aside. She beckoned Bilbo closer as her fingers delved into the cedar box. “And please do not protest.”

 

Bilbo bit the inside of his lip. He’d been about to do just that.

 

Leaning forward, Dís held the first bead between her thumb and forefinger. It was almost completely blue – lapis lazuli, perhaps – broken only by slivers of silver arranged in a zigzag pattern. “This belonged to Thrór. My grandfather.” She placed it in his hand.

 

It was lighter than he expected and as he held it up for closer inspection, Bilbo noticed that he’d been mistaken. It was not silver. It was mithril.

 

“Dís…”

 

She talked over him, voice subdued. “This was my father’s.” This one was completely mithril with no inlaid gems. Instead there was an intricate carving covering its silvery white surface – Bilbo was sure he’d need a glass lens to fully appreciate the detail.

 

The third bead was wider than the rest and heavier than Thrór’ and Thráin’s combined. Dís explained that her brother Frerin had – much to their mother’s consternation – always preferred to wear only one braid in his hair, if at all.

 

“Like Kíli,” Bilbo commented, fingering the obsidian set into Frerin’s silver bead – which was more of a clasp, considering its size.

 

She smiled. “Yes. This is his bead. And this is Fíli’s.” Dís first handed him a small silver bead studded with tiny rubies, and then a similar one with yellow beryl. “They wore these as children, once their fingers were skilled enough to put in their own braids.”

 

The box was now empty. After helping Bilbo replace the beads, Dís passed it to him and pulled her main braid over one shoulder. At the end of it was a clasp rather like Frerin’s, and she removed it from her hair.

 

“And this is mine, made a few years before my brother decided to embark on his quest.” Hers was silver as well, with etched designs around – “Saltwater pearls from the Gulf of Lhûn,” Dís supplied, noting his gaze. “Such things are rare in our halls. I trust you will keep this well.” She inclined her head.

 

“Dís, I…” Bilbo stared at her helplessly. “What will I _do_ with them? I cannot – as I said, my hair’s hardly long enough for one braid, let alone _six_.” He’d been teased about this time and time again, after all.

 

“I will tell you what to do,” Dís replied. “It’s time you learned how to braid, Master Hobbit.”

 

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was having a rotten, terrible, no-good day.

 

It had started with waking up with a feeling of something being _off_. This had manifested in the indelicate form of having contracted the runs. (He suspected last night’s mushroom stir-fry, which just proved that Bombur had been right about the inedibility of cave fungus.)

 

The off-ness had persisted, however. The thought of breakfast had made him queasy, so he only ate three slices of bread drizzled in honey and dipped in chopped peanuts, when he’d usually have eaten five. He’d had to set the strawberries aside for later.

 

In the Library, he’d broken his favourite quill once he’d discovered that he’d mistaken _si_ for _sí_. He’d only noticed once the phrase ‘here and now’ had cropped up and puzzled him. It meant that he now had to look through more than half of his translations for more corrections; if only there was some kind of magic to find and replace the affected words.

 

It was Sterday, so at least he was spared the sadistic whims of a certain Dwarf warrior – not that his arms weren’t constantly aching anyway. He did still have braiding practice with Dís, though, after lunching with her. By the end of it, neither of them was happy.

 

Perhaps it was best to leave it at that.

 

Now, not-sulking in his room, he was entirely unimpressed by the loud knock at his door.

 

“No, thank you! I don’t want any Dwarves – royalty or otherwise – bothering me any more than they already have!”

 

“And what about friends who’ve travelled all the way from the Shire?”

 

 _The Shire_? Bilbo mouthed the words as he got to his feet, curious in spite of himself. The voice had been familiar, despite being muffled through the door, and he actually wondered if it could be –

 

“Gandalf!”

 

The Wizard peered down at him with narrowed eyes, leaning on his staff. “Bilbo Baggins. The last I saw you, you had your heart set on Bag End.”

 

“And I did go back,” Bilbo replied indignantly.

 

“But you are living _here_.” Gandalf purposefully emphasized the word by tapping his staff on the ground. “Although I received word that Thorin and his nephews had survived, I didn’t think that you and he would –”

 

“But we did.” He was being rude by interrupting, but Bilbo didn’t want to rehash those memories unless absolutely necessary. His day had been bad enough. “And now Drogo lives in Bag End, and I live in Erebor. It’s as simple as that.”

 

“Hum,” said Gandalf. “Well, I’ve sent for tea, so you’d best invite me in and tell me everything.”

 

As unexpected as Gandalf’s visit was, Bilbo was happy to see him – especially after he proved keen enough to drop the subject of Thorin’s behaviour at the end of their quest. Perhaps today wouldn’t turn out so rotten after all.

 

“Drogo and Primula send their regards, of course.” Gandalf sighed a little as he heaped sugar into his tea. “It’s nice to see the Shire abuzz with preparations for the wedding. You Hobbits do like your parties.”

 

He snorted. “And you like your whiz poppers. I’m surprised you didn’t stay until autumn.”

 

“I can hardly while my days away in Hobbiton, Bilbo. I am busy, you know.”

 

Bilbo pointedly didn’t reply and instead brought out the strawberries from his breakfast to eat with the lemon cake that had been sent along with the tea. They were plump and sweet, and the juice burst across his tongue when he bit into the first one.

 

“Besides which,” Gandalf continued, “I meant to visit you.”

 

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “And I appreciate it, my friend. It’s good to see you.”

 

The Wizard took a moment to thoughtfully chew on his cake. “Why aren’t you headed to the Shire for the wedding?”

 

To be honest, Bilbo had wanted to go – but it wasn’t as if he could go gallivanting across Middle Earth right now. He didn’t think Thorin would appreciate it very much and carefully didn’t consider the pang that went through his heart at the possibility of leaving the King’s side for such a long period. What he said was, “I’m busy.”

 

Gandalf nodded. “Yes. You’ll be planning your own soon.”

 

Bilbo froze.

 

“When were you going to mention your courtship?”

 

Never, if he’d had his way. “Eventually.”

 

Gandalf snorted inelegantly. “You must be ashamed of it.”

 

“I am not!” he exclaimed, a little taken aback by his own vehemence. “I just – I don’t see why I have to advertise it to all and sundry.”

 

“Telling me is hardly advertising.”

 

Bilbo bit into another strawberry, expression mulish.

 

“What’s happened, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked gently. “You wouldn’t have agreed to this in November.”

 

“Things have changed.”

 

Gandalf kept silent for long enough that Bilbo could taste the hope that subject had been dropped. In hindsight, that’d been very optimistic – and unrealistic – of him.

 

“Some things – some characters, I should say – cannot change.”

 

The accusation was clear, and he bristled on Thorin’s behalf. “Before you continue, let me remind you that _you_ were the one who recommended my ‘services’ to the Dwarves.” Perhaps Bilbo was being a little unfair, but Gandalf had no right to doubt Thorin so. “If you hadn’t, I’d still be in the Shire.”

 

“I have never threatened to kill you over a piece of treasure.”

 

He pursed his lips. “Why is everyone obsessed with that? _I’m_ the one who was threatened, and I’ve gotten over it.”

 

Long fingers traced the edge of a serviceable stone teacup. “Forgiveness is an admirable trait, Bilbo, but I fear you do so too easily.”

 

“And what was I supposed to do? Spurn his apology? Fault him for being _bewitched_?” Bilbo frowned. “I might as well have blamed him for Smaug attacking Erebor and Dale – not that he doesn’t do that to himself as it is.”

 

“I don’t want to cast aspersions on Thorin’s character. He has become a good king, but how long until he succumbs to the dragon fever again?”

 

A chill settled low on Bilbo’s back. “You don’t know that.”

 

“It might happen,” Gandalf insisted stubbornly.

 

“Then I’ll bring him out of it!” His hand clenched around the handle of his teaspoon. Bilbo could feel the heat high in his cheeks and he felt terrified of the prospect of losing Thorin to the mind-sickness.

 

“You can’t put yourself in danger for something so pointless.”

 

“I’ll decide that for myself, thank you.”

 

“Now see here, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf leaned forward in his seat, looming over Bilbo more than he usually did. “I’ll not sit aside quietly because you think you owe Thorin anything – you _don’t_.”

 

“I’m not –” Bilbo scowled ferociously. “ _If_ Thorin is lost to the dragon fever – and I doubt this will ever happen – I won’t save him from it because I owe him. I’ll do it because I love him!” he shouted, and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth.

 

He hadn’t – he hadn’t meant to say that.

 

Ignoring Gandalf’s astonishment, Bilbo hunched in on himself. His stomach roiled and threatened to eject its contents. He pressed his palm more firmly against his face to prevent this, and to also subdue the bizarre impulse to laugh.

 

It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ love Thorin – he did (and honestly, that itself was frightening). But he hadn’t even admitted as much to himself, how could he have blurted it out so brazenly, and so loudly?

 

Some time in the last three months, he’d fallen in love with Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo couldn’t pinpoint the exact time when or the exact reason why this had happened. He wasn’t sure how he even knew it _was_ love. There were very many questions clamouring for attention in his mind, but he knew – he knew deep in his bones that these feelings were as real as the feelings Thorin had for him.

 

Again he stifled a happy laugh.

 

“You…” Gandalf’s voice was full of wonder. “You do love him.”

 

Having it acknowledged brought back the uneasiness in his belly, just as it brought forth a wave of giddiness. Bilbo slowly lowered his hand to his lap and nodded.

 

Gandalf sat back in his chair with an audible thump. “Well! I certainly hadn’t expected that.” He brushed his beard thoughtfully for a moment before saying, in a surprisingly remorseful tone, “I’m sorry I voiced my misgivings so insistently, my boy… though I won’t apologise for voicing them altogether.”

 

“I would’ve expected no less.”

 

He was given a smile – Bilbo supposed that Gandalf had no qualms about Bilbo’s ‘easy forgiveness’ when it applied to the Wizard himself. “I hope bringing up the presence of your sword is not as controversial a topic.” Gandalf pointed at Sting where it was carelessly lying on Bilbo’s spare cloak. “Have there been very many battles of late?”

 

Bilbo snorted. “Not quite,” he said, and set about explaining. As expected, Gandalf laughed.

 

“Dwarves are indeed a strange bunch. I’m rather surprised you agreed to it, Bilbo.”

 

“It was necessary.” He shrugged. “And I figured I shouldn’t let it gather dust in the corner.”

 

Gandalf merely hummed past the strawberry in his mouth. After swallowing, he asked, “How about that ring of yours? I shouldn’t think you’d have much cause to use it here.”

 

“No,” Bilbo lied, reaching for his teacup and its tepid tea. “No, of course not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as of my updating this, this fic is one kudos shy of 300 and as for the comments and hits - I can’t. I’m honestly mind-boggled. You guys are hideously awesome, and I can’t thank you enough.
> 
> Though perhaps Bilbo’s proclamation helped a little?
> 
> Next chapter will be an Intermission, so this time the guessing game’s for what happens in the chapter following that. I think I put in pretty brazen hints. The winner will get a sneak peak of a chapter of their choice =)
> 
> P.S. Purple lilac means “first emotion of love” ;)


	6. Intermission - Almost a Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's part of the tale so far.

Thorin did not make a habit of doubting himself.

 

He was King, after all, and had to present a strong front for his people. As their ruler, he couldn’t appear to hesitate or to question his decisions. Dwarves were of rock and stone, and their resolve should be similarly steady and unyielding. Who would set an example for his people if not him?

 

However, he found that he had done little else beyond doubting himself these past few weeks. These past few months, even.

 

Quite simply, the problem was this: he was in love with Bilbo Baggins.

 

Thorin had already worked past his shock and his surprise. He had already abandoned all forms of denial. He no longer wondered about the how, or the why, or the when. No, he freely acknowledged his feelings for his burglar… even if he was certain he would not act on them.

 

The truth of the matter was that Thorin was terrified. He was utterly terrified that he would be taken by the fever again, that this time he would not escape its thrall. Only this time it wouldn’t be the gold that ensnared him, but a Hobbit by the name of Bilbo Baggins.

 

Thorin was afraid that he would not let Bilbo go, even if Bilbo wished they be no more than friends.

 

Never mind that he had faced death and despair time and time again. Never mind that he had built a kingdom and reclaimed another. Never mind that he was king of the greatest Dwarf stronghold of Middle Earth. He was not brave enough for this.

 

He could never let Bilbo know.

 

* * *

 

Thorin expected Dís to confront him.

 

“I know,” he said, as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know I am being a fool.”

 

“I was going to use a stronger word.”

 

He didn’t smile. “He does not love me.”

 

“How can you be sure?” Dís demanded angrily, looking like she wanted to box his ears.

 

He returned her gaze steadily. “Can you tell me that he feels anything beyond friendly affection?”

 

“I –” She frowned and swept her heavy braids behind a shoulder as she thought. Thorin calmly watched his sister, until she finally shook her head. “I cannot be sure.”

 

Thorin looked unsurprised. “Neither could anyone else I have asked.”

 

“That does not mean – Thorin, you know how private the Hobbit is. It is unlikely he would have shared his feelings with anyone.”

 

“And what does that matter?”

 

“It matters!” Angry, Dís strode away from him and sat down before she did something rash – like trying to put Thorin in a headlock. “It matters when you insist on pining after him like a lovesick milkmaid! It matters when you are easily distracted from your duties! It matters when my brother the King decides that he will give up his One without even _trying_!”

 

“What would you have me do, Dís?” Thorin asked roughly, for the first time raising his voice, almost to a shout. “I would rather retain what we have than jeopardise it with my inconvenient emotions!”

 

“Court him.”

 

Thorin drew himself up to his full height, towering over the seated Dís. His fists clenched by his sides, he opened his mouth fully intending to bellow loudly enough to shake the dust from the top of the hall – and then abruptly deflated. His voice was barely a slip of its former timbre when he asked her to repeat herself.

 

“Court him.” Dís looked smug, which was an unattractive expression on her (or so Thorin spitefully thought). “Court him in the ways of our people. It’s the perfect solution to a situation such as this.”

 

But Thorin was shaking his head. “No. He does not know our traditions. Not only will he misinterpret my intentions, he will be out of his depth.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “These problems of yours can be solved by just _speaking_ to Bilbo.” At Thorin’s outraged look, Dís held her palms out towards him, placating. “Yes, I am well aware of your reservations, idiotic as they are. If you will not do it, then I will continue to make arrangements.”

 

Suddenly suspicious, he asked, “What arrangements?” quickly followed by, “ _Continue_!?”

 

“Yes,” she replied, dignity dripping from that single syllable. “I knew you would eventually find a way to talk yourself out of revealing your feelings to Bilbo. If I can prevent this stupidity, then I will.”

 

“How dare –”

 

“You should think on your first gift to him, Thorin. I will give you a month. I think that’s more than enough time for you to pull your head out of your arse.” Dís rose to her feet regally, chin held high. “And if you do not, I shall tell the Hobbit myself, and I shall tell him that you were too much a coward to do it yourself.”

 

Thorin, looking suddenly small and stunned, staggered backwards and sat down heavily on a low bench.

 

Taking pity on him, Dís touched his cheek gently. “Take heart, brother. I have come to know Bilbo Baggins these past months.” When he didn’t acknowledge this, she sighed softly and kissed his forehead. “He will accept.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo _had_ accepted.

 

Thorin spent most of the day elated (even if it did not show on his face). The bespoke handkerchiefs he’d had made had obviously been the correct choice. If he was inclined to be poetic, he would describe that he felt as if he was walking on thin air. As it was, he’d been told before that his forays into poetry were nothing short of disastrous. No matter. Simply put, he was happy.

 

At least, until an untimely thought crossed his mind and utterly soured his mood.

 

What if Bilbo had felt obliged to accept?

 

Oh, yes, Bilbo had denied that Thorin was forcing him into the courtship – but if the Hobbit truly believed that he _owed_ Thorin, then –

 

Thorin pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, feeling ill.

 

Mahal, what did that make him? Surely he was a monster, to force someone into a partnership. How could he be so selfish? How could he have been so blind?

 

After a long moment of pacing and furious deliberation, Thorin made an exasperated sound. No doubt if he’d voiced these thoughts to Dís, she’d have threatened bodily harm – and she’d be right to. _Of course_ Bilbo wasn’t going through with the courtship merely to please Thorin. The Hobbit was the most exasperatingly stubborn being Thorin had met for a reason – it was an aspect of Bilbo’s character that he found both unbelievably appealing and extremely irksome.

 

No, Bilbo had entered into the courtship of his own free will – and if he wished to withdraw, then he would do so without qualm. And Thorin would let him.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

“Yes?” Thorin asked, half turning to face the young Dwarf hovering in the doorway.

 

He bowed, chain mail clinking gently. “Her Highness requests your presence, Sire.”

 

Thorin inclined his head, barely containing his relieved sigh. At least he had managed to sidestep his little crisis before meeting with Dís – else she would have somehow dragged the whole story out of him and scolded him for it.

 

He loved his sister, but she was appallingly overbearing.

 

Squaring his shoulders, Thorin left his quarters and started towards the private dining hall where Dís and her sons were waiting. Perhaps he could ask them for advice on his gift.

 

* * *

 

Thorin only allowed himself to work on Bilbo’s gift – a pipe – at night, after he finished his dinner. The courtship was of vital importance to him, yes, but he could not set aside matters of state for something (relatively) small.

 

It explained why it took almost a month out of the allotted forty days for him to complete it.

 

He’d not actually carved _‘azahyi-shuthû_ since he’d made his own pipe. The deep amber colouring from bowl to bit was a testament to how long ago that had been. Still, Thorin was very pleased with the results, pride swelling in his chest as he set aside the bone-ash he’d used to polish his gift, looking over the detailing one last time. He was reasonably sure that Bilbo would like it.

 

Quite sure.

 

Alright, he was so nervous his palms were sweating. But no one was around to comment on it, so Thorin just pushed his anxiety aside and attempted to slow his breathing. ‘Attempted to’ being the operative phrase.

 

Oh, he felt like a fool child. He was almost two centuries old, and here he was acting like a Dwarfling, or like one of his nephews. Thorin allowed himself a little snort at the image of Fíli and Kíli tripping over themselves trying to court their Ones. 

 

There was a knock at his door and Thorin – abruptly grateful for the interruption – pushed his chair back from his desk noisily so he could throw it open.

 

“Can I talk to you?” Bofur asked.

 

* * *

 

Bofur was one of his friends, one of the Company, and Thorin thought that their dining together shouldn’t be as awkward as it currently was. It all boiled down to the fact that he was uncomfortable with sharing his reasons for courting Bilbo, while Bofur seemed to want to talk about nothing else.

 

Well. Understandably.

 

Thorin had felt somewhat relieved when Bofur had stepped forward and volunteered to represent Bilbo’s parents. Rather shamefully, Thorin had forgotten about that requirement – even if Bungo and Belladonna Baggins had still been alive, there was no guarantee that they would have come to Erebor.

 

(Though, according to Bilbo’s stories, maybe he should rescind that opinion in relation to Belladonna.)

 

Thorin did not wish to linger after dinner, but he forced himself to sit by the fire with Bofur as the other Dwarf chatted easily. Bit by bit, the King relaxed and even managed to set aside his thoughts of Bilbo, who was no doubt having an easier time of it with Dís and Balin.

 

He leaned back in his chair. Perhaps not easier. Not with Dís there.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

Thorin growled. “I’ve told you already, Bofur.”

 

He shrugged easily, proving that the use of the appellation had been deliberate. “Force of habit. My apologies.”

 

“Hmm.” Thorin waited as the miner poked at the fire. “What is it?”

 

Bofur’s face was utterly serious devoid of its usual dimpled smile. “Answer me this.”

 

Thorin made a face. It seemed that Dís and Bofur shared the same tendency to drag out conversations, using twenty words where one would suffice. “What?”

 

“Do you think you will make him happy?”

 

He watched the dancing flames in the fireplace, mulling the question over. Without prompting, the image of a smiling Bilbo came to mind, and Thorin’s heart skipped a beat as he imagined himself being the cause of that smile.

 

“I wouldn’t have courted him if I didn’t think I could,” he said simply, because it was the truth. More to the point, he was sure Bilbo would not consider Thorin a suitable spouse otherwise.

 

Bofur stood and Thorin quickly got to his feet as well. He was offered a small smile.

 

“One last thing.”

 

Thorin quirked his eyebrow and obligingly allowed Bofur to step close and murmur in his ear (which was quite ridiculous, considering there was no one to overhear them). “It may interest you to know, Sire, that Bilbo not only sings – he writes songs and poems as well.”

 

While Thorin was aware of the former piece of information – and was aware of what a sweet voice his burglar had – he had been ignorant of the latter. And now it gave him an idea.

 

He stepped back and bowed elaborately. “Thank you, Bofur.”

 

The miner inclined his head and grinned. “Thorin.”

 

* * *

 

“Thorin!”

 

Thorin had exactly two seconds to react to his door being thrown open before two boisterous Dwarves thudded into him, one hanging from his neck and the other clamping his arms around his waist. He waved his arms wildly, trying to keep his balance, only for the three of them to collapse into a heap on the ground not moments later.

 

His nephews giggled madly.

 

“What in Mahal’s name is wrong with you two?” Thorin demanded crossly. “This wasn’t funny when you were in your third decade, much less now.”

 

“Stop being such a stuffed shirt, Uncle,” Fíli said comfortably, settling his head on Thorin’s stomach and smiling up at him. “Mother says it will shorten your life.”

 

“She put you up to this.”

 

“No, we just wanted to see you.” Kíli tugged at his brother’s hair absently.

 

Thorin huffed. “And you couldn’t have waited for dinnertime?”

 

“We think you may like our advice,” Fíli said.

 

“Yes, and Mother may not, considering she has bet on Bilbo beating you tomorrow.”

 

“ _What_?” Thorin was more outraged at the fact that his own kin had wagered against him, rather than the actual betting. “How dare she – I am not such an unskilled warrior that I may be bested by a Hobbit!”

 

Kíli’s shrug was stilted, pressed as he was against Thorin’s side. “To be fair, she knows that Bilbo’s made good progress with his swordplay.”

 

Deep suspicion coloured Thorin’s voice as he asked, “How?”

 

“Uh.”

 

Fíli looked nervous. “Well, you see…”

 

“What have you two done?” Thorin’s eyes were narrowed.

 

“We just wanted to help!” Kíli said quickly, hand clenched in Thorin’s tunic.

 

“We couldn’t stand idly by and let him be made a fool.” Fíli frowned. “Besides which, Bilbo approached us for help.”

 

“That’s right! He approached us!”

 

“And you have managed to turn him into a fearsome soldier in the span of a few weeks, I assume,” Thorin drawled, even as he felt a little remorseful for his snark. It was not Bilbo’s fault that he’d not been properly taught – in fact, Thorin was glad that the Shire was yet untainted by the cruelties of the world. (Even if he had dragged one of its inhabitants across Middle-Earth and so stolen his innocence. He’d never fully be rid of that guilt.)

 

“He is more skilled than when first we met him,” Fíli said softly.

 

“But that’s not why we’re here!”

 

Thorin winced. Kíli had practically shouted in his ear. The lad really needed to curb his enthusiasm. “Why are you here?” he asked tiredly.

 

Fíli lifted his head a little. “Seeing as your battle prowess is nigh unmatched, Uncle –”

 

“Yes, since you have spent many years in combat –”

 

“And since you trained us –”

 

“Alongside Mister Dwalin –” Kíli pointed out.

 

“Yes, and we mustn’t forget that Mother helped as well –”

 

“Will you two get to the point?” Thorin growled from between clenched teeth. His two nephews didn’t look cowed in the slightest, which was quite galling.

 

“We just thought that we could offer you more practical counsel, so that you may have… an advantage tomorrow.”

 

The King frowned, and was just about to snap for them to stop dallying when Kíli leaned over to whisper in his ear. His frown only deepened – they were in Thorin’s quarters. Why was it necessary for him to speak in such low tones?

 

But as Kíli continued to outline his and his brother’s plan, Thorin found himself with a grin to match Fíli’s. Then he started to laugh.

 

Yes. Their plan might just work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah almost forgot to post this. I blame my clinical attachment. 
> 
> So now you know what's the next step of the courtship. Excited?
> 
> Thanks as always to alkjira and daemonwildcat.


	7. 06 - Nets and Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Bilbo had told Gandalf: "I figured I shouldn’t let it gather dust in the corner".

_…we are not a people untouched by conflict. In fact, we are more prepared than most races when it comes to readying our skills for battle. Whether it is by the axe, or the arrow, or the sword, our children will forever be taught to defend themselves and to do honour in the fields of war, if so necessary._

_A suitor and their partner should know each other's skills and weaknesses as well as their own. They should be prepared to overcome all chinks in their armour and defend their spouse to the death. If a Dwarf abandons their One in such situations, it is tantamount to murder, and they must henceforth be banished from all dwellings of Dwarves._

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courting, Chapter Five: Pertaining to One-on-One Combat_

 

* * *

 

_June, 2943 T.A._

 

Bilbo sat on his bed for long moments, thoughts in disarray. His mind was a seething whirlpool of self-doubt and terror, even if there were more logical parts of him despairing at his foolish fears.

 

His trembling hand again traced the bundle on his lap, still wrapped, although he was perfectly aware of what was contained within the soft leather.

 

He tightened his jaw. This was something he _had_ to do. If not for himself, then for Thorin.

 

As was usual, Bilbo’s mind derailed when he thought about the King. They had seen each other only yesterday, sharing a moment as Thorin spoke of the frustrating delegation from the Grey Mountains. Apparently they’d been insufferably snooty about Erebor’s slow progress. Bilbo thought back on the memory, when he’d unthinkingly placed his hand over Thorin’s larger one, offering wordless comfort.

 

And then, instead of gently pulling away, Thorin had just turned his own hand so that he could link their fingers together.

 

It had been such a simple act and was all the more powerful for it. Bilbo had held hands with many people, certainly, but none of those times had left him feeling simultaneously bereft and beatific. He’d had to force himself to push past the buzzing in his ears so he could continue listening to Thorin complain.

 

It had not ended there. Before they parted, Thorin had quietly explained how his kin especially revered hands; considering the importance placed on the skills of metalsmithing and mining, this had not been especially earth-shattering information.

 

No, what had utterly wrecked Bilbo had been when Thorin carefully cradled Bilbo’s hand in both of his, and then calmly leaned down to kiss his palm.

 

Bilbo now looked down at his right hand, lying on his thigh palm up. He could still feel the gentle pressure of dry lips and the soft scratch of whiskers.

 

He felt his resolve harden into steel. Yes. He would do this for Thorin. It took mere moments to untie string and toss aside the leather covering. Bilbo ignored the suddenly quick tempo of his heart and rose to his feet so he could leave his room.

 

In his hand he held Sting.

 

* * *

 

He’d agonised over his choice of instructor for almost as long as he’d wrestled with his take on the whole matter. Of all his friends, who could he ask to train him in swordplay? In the end, the decision had been surprisingly obvious.

 

“So you’ll help me?”

 

Kíli glanced at his brother. “Well, I do not think we could –”

 

“We couldn’t,” Fíli said, gently but firmly.

 

“Ah.” Kíli turned back to Bilbo with a short nod. “We couldn’t –”

 

“Not that we wouldn’t, you must understand –”

 

“Yes! We most definitely want to –”

 

“Aye, we want to –”

 

“But we couldn’t.”

 

“No. We couldn’t.”

 

Bilbo was more than a little overwhelmed at having to turn his head this way and that as Fíli and Kíli finished each other’s sentences at such a speed it was almost a sort of pantomime. He cleared his throat. Since there was a lull he figured he might as well speak. “Well then, well then I –”

 

“However!” Fíli interrupted.

 

Kíli nodded and winked. “However.”

 

“We know someone –”

 

“– who will  be able –”

 

“– to lend you a hand –”

 

“– Mister Baggins.”

 

And with no more explanation than that, they each hoisted him up under an arm and trotted off.

 

Flabbergasted, Bilbo tried to break free but Fíli and Kíli held fast, lifting him so his feet kicked uselessly at the air. The Hobbit’s cheeks burned in annoyance and in humiliation as Dwarves turned to stare at the three of them.

 

“Oh, blast you both! Let me down!”

 

This went (very rudely) ignored. Indeed, the two princes started talking among themselves in Khuzdul, giggling and utterly pleased with themselves if their smirks were any indication. Eventually Bilbo gave up and attempted to at least get comfortable – no easy feat, bearing in mind that Fíli was shorter than Kíli and their gaits did not match exactly.

 

He soon realised that they were escorting him – and here ‘escorting’ was perhaps used wrongly – to the training grounds. The air was full of laughter and jeering as well as the ringing of metal on metal as axes and swords and maces clashed against each other. (There were even a few archers by the far end. Very few.) Many Dwarves were about, and few paid attention to the odd spectacle the two princes and Hobbit made.

 

Fíli and Kíli stopped by an impressive selection of flails (Bilbo eyes unerringly caught the nasty-looking spikes) as they rose to their toes to look for… well, whoever it was they claimed would ‘lend a hand’.

 

Fíli frowned and rocked back on his heels – causing Bilbo to lurch to one side horribly. “I don’t see him.”

 

“Well, that’s because you – ah!” Kíli jumped a little, inadvertently jostling his and Fíli’s charge. “There he is, by the water drums! Come, brother!” Bilbo, now rather tiredly miserable, had no choice but to be carried along.

 

Dwalin took one look at all three of them, lingering on Fíli’ and Kíli’s grins, and then curtly said, “No.”

 

“Oh come on, where’s your sense of romance?”

 

“Yeah, what about when you want to woo your One?”

 

“If and when that happens,” Dwalin said, turning his full attention to the strings in his hands, “I will merely ask one question. That’ll be the extent of it. I do not care for such fripperies as our King.”

 

The princes made faces at each other.

 

“It’s not like we’re asking for you to help our burglar pick out flowers to braid in Uncle’s hair –” Fíli started, only to be interrupted by Kíli.

 

“Although that would be amusing.”

 

“Which part of it?” his brother asked.

 

“All of it!” Kíli laughed. “First Bilbo and Mister Dwalin sitting in a field of pretty flowers, and then the two of them preparing garlands and gossiping – and then,” he had to break off to get his snorting under control. “And then Bilbo crowning Thorin with the things and – _Mahal_ – Uncle’s _face_ , Fíli, it’ll be as good as gold!”

 

Bilbo ignored the twinge of shy delight in his chest at the idea of crowning Thorin with flowers.

 

“That may be,” Fíli said practically, “but the point stands. We’re just asking for weapons training. You trained us, after all, and you’ve served many years alongside Thorin.”

 

“We thought you’d be able to give our dear burglar some advice,” Kíli added, waving around Bilbo’s arm like it was an extension of his own limb. “Give him a bit of an edge.”

 

“I really don’t think –”

 

“Because that part of the courting can be public,” Fíli said, talking over Bilbo. “And we’re definitely attending if there’s an increased chance of Thorin being beaten by a Hobbit.”

 

“Well, maybe he doesn’t need tips, Fíli. He could just turn his huge eyes on Uncle; I bet that’ll work like a charm.”

 

“I don’t –” Bilbo started again, vehemently.

 

“It could do, it could do.” The older prince stroked his furred chin with his free hand. “The image is rather sweet, actually. It’ll be like when you try to get out of trouble with Mother.”

 

Kíli spluttered. “I never – I’m not sweet!”

 

“Enough,” Dwalin said, no hint of anger or annoyance in his tone or bearing. “Halfling.”

 

Bilbo’s voice was weary, but not timid. “Yes?”

 

“Escape from their grasp, if you can.”

 

Since he was looking down at his work, Dwalin quite missed what happened next. He only heard a curse and a sharp hitch of breath, and grinned as he got to his feet. He tossed the net in his hands over the two princes before they could cry out in surprise, and watched as they tangled themselves first in it, and then each other.

 

Dwalin laughed when they fell over with a thump and turned to Bilbo, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not bad, laddie, not bad at all. You wait for these two to sort themselves out, and then get them to start you on basic training, get you back in shape.” He poked Bilbo in the belly, much to the Hobbit’s displeasure. “Find me in three days.”

 

“Three days is enough to get me into shape?” Bilbo asked doubtfully, watching Fíli and Kíli flail about uselessly on the ground, complaining loudly and pointedly.

 

Dwalin’s grin was fierce. “It’d better be.”

 

* * *

 

_Mid-June, 2942 T.A._

 

“Stop standing still!” Dwalin roared. “Move!”

 

Bilbo would have protested this, but found that he'd rather not waste his breath. As it was, he was wheezing slightly and clutching at a stitch in his side. Calling for a break would likely be unwise, so he just clenched his jaw. Ignoring all his common sense (that was shrieking at him to run away), he darted closer towards Dwalin's massive bulk, sword raised.

 

As had happened countless times, Dwalin batted it away easily. “Again!”

 

He barely got the sword above the level of his shoulder before Dwalin had parried. His expression was lazy and made annoyance creep under Bilbo’s skin. “Again, Halfling!”

 

He jerked his head to shake a stray curl out of his eye, feeling sweat slide down his back. Despite all of Dwalin's (loud) instructions against it, Bilbo paused for a moment as he assessed the situation.

 

Then he swung his arm and the practice sword met Dwalin's leg with a solid _thwap_.

 

Dwalin laughed.

 

“Not bad,” he said. “But you'd best aim properly, so you can get to the tendons instead of just nicking my boot.”

 

Bilbo tried his best not to be too undignified as he gasped in great lungfuls of air. “I'm not trying to ‘get to’ anyone's tendons,” he reminded. He was just supposed to spar against Thorin, and they would try to disarm one another. Any blood spilled or other injury would be a grievous breach of courting protocol.

 

“It's a useful skill. You might as well remember it.”

 

His mouth twisted. “I don't think I'll have much use for disabling someone.” The idea was horrifying.

 

“Oh?” Dwalin's eyebrow lifted challengingly. “What if you are robbed? What if you are caught in an Orc raid? What if a tree-shagger has you cornered in one of their forests?”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Elves aren't going to –”

 

Dwalin came at him with a roar. His sword, although comically small, looked extremely threatening as it sliced through the air in an arc aimed at Bilbo's head. Bilbo was amazed when he managed to block the blow instead of falling backwards.

 

Dwalin, however, was not so impressed. He held their swords together with his other hand. (The practice swords, though made with cheap steel, had blunt edges for obvious reasons.) “Look. This is exactly what I've told you not to do.”

 

Bilbo winced. He had been instructed on the proper way to block – not that Dwalin had started those lessons until after their second week together – and this was not it. Instead of using the flat of his sword to parry and guide Dwalin’s weapon away, he'd brought their swords together edge-to-edge. Not good.

 

“I wasn't expecting to be attacked,” he said waspishly, ears burning.

 

“Good. Keeps you on your toes.” Dwalin stepped back. “We're done for the day.”

 

“Really?”

 

Dwalin nodded. “I don't need you collapsing here. Thorin will have my hide.”

 

Bilbo huffed. “Am I even improving?”

 

Dwalin looked unimpressed. “If you have to ask, Halfling, I don't know what to do with you.”

 

“Well – well, excuse me! I am not a master swordsman, so I can't judge such things!”

 

The Dwarf scratched his neck. “Well, neither am I.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“I'm not a master at swordplay. I manage well enough with my axes, and my hammer.” He shrugged. “Thorin is better at it than I am.”

 

“Then…”

 

Here Dwalin grinned. “Then why have those daft princes sent you to me? Laddie, I think you know well enough that I can't make you anything more than competent with the time that we have. I don’t think anyone can.”

 

“Thanks,” Bilbo muttered, strangely relieved instead of insulted.

 

“What I can do, however, is get you to hold your own.” Something sly in Dwalin's voice made Bilbo look up and pay attention. “At least, for long enough to employ some… tactics.” He grinned again.

 

Bilbo found himself grinning back as he set the point of his sword against the ground and leaned on it like a walking stick. “Tactics, you say?”

 

* * *

 

_Mid-July, 2942 T.A._

 

Bilbo mopped at his brow with a handkerchief, and easily caught the bottle of water Dwalin tossed towards him. He took a long drink and took care not to spill any down his chin.

 

It’d been a month and a half since Fíli and Kíli had carried him off to beg Dwalin’s help, and although he was nowhere near as skilled as any of his companions, at least Bilbo could proudly say that his sword no longer flew out of his grasp within the first few minutes of any duel.

 

Apparently he’d improved enough that Dwalin insisted Bilbo spend a half-hour of their lesson time with Sting in hand. During these parts of practice, their movements were understandably slower and more cautious. After all, Sting was well cared after (if not often used) and an Elvish blade besides; there was no point endangering themselves.

 

“Alright,” said Dwalin.

 

“Alright?”

 

“You’re done.”

 

“I’m certainly not going to get up anytime soon, that’s for sure.” His arm didn’t ache as badly as it had during the first week of his training, but that didn’t mean he wanted to push fate.

 

Dwalin sat down next to him. “You’re done with your training.”

 

Bilbo almost dropped the bottle. “I’m done?”

 

Dwalin inclined his head. “Enough for your duel with Thorin. You can ask him for further instruction, if you want.”

 

Yes, well, he wouldn’t mind not continuing with any more lessons. “Thank you for teaching me, Dwalin,” Bilbo says sincerely, bowing his head.

 

The Dwarf looked away, embarrassed. “Practice every day, with the princes.”

 

“I will,” Bilbo promised.

 

“You’d better. No point wasting all my hard work.” Dwalin checked the edge of one of his knives, still looking away from the Hobbit beside him.

 

Bilbo smiled.

 

* * *

 

It was a week later.

 

Bilbo tried to swallow down his anxiety. The book had gone on at length about the trust required for a courting couple to duel with naked blades – and he could, intellectually at least, see the logic in that line of reasoning. And he knew that Thorin had the skill to prevent from even nicking his skin, even if the gleam of Orcrist’s wickedly sharp edge made him nervous.

 

No, Bilbo worried that _he_ would hurt Thorin.

 

A shadow fell across him and Bilbo looked up and to the side. Dwalin grinned down at him.

 

“Don’t look so distressed, laddie. You remember what I told you.”

 

Bilbo, not trusting his voice, just jerked his head once in a nod.

 

“Good.” To the Hobbit’s irritation, Dwalin fitted a large hand over his head and ruffled his curls.

 

Thorin watched this interaction with narrowed eyes. “And what have you been telling Master Baggins, Dwalin?”

 

“This and that.” At the displeased look this non-answer garnered, Dwalin barked out a laugh. “Surely he’s allowed a few tips, Thorin. You have the advantage of more than a century of experience.”

 

The King waved a dismissive hand. “Details.”

 

Dwalin rolled his eyes. “Come along then. Might as well get it over with, then we can all go about our business.” He stomped away to the edge of the practice ring.

 

Bilbo frowned after him, and only now realised how many Dwarves had gathered around them. It wasn’t only the Company and Dís – although they were seated or standing nearer the periphery of the ring. There were many others who had come to watch, and Bilbo felt a coil of discomfort tighten in his belly. But Dwalin was right – the faster this was over and done with, the faster the crowd would disperse. He made to get into position.

 

“Wait.”

 

Bilbo automatically turned. He wondered what Thorin could possibly want –

 

The King, his suitor and opponent both, was suddenly much closer than he’d anticipated. He could feel the warmth of Thorin’s body, and the soft pressure of his hand on Bilbo’s upper arm. He could smell the soapwort on Thorin’s skin and the Argan oil in his hair. Bilbo’s mind stuttered to a halt at the scant distance between them, which seemed to be decreasing at an alarming pace. There were –

 

There were lips brushing against his cheek.

 

Bilbo almost jolted away in surprise, but for the hand now cradling his jaw. Thorin pulled back too soon, far too soon, although he remained close.

 

“For luck,” he murmured, and Bilbo flushed at the intimacy in his voice.

 

Next thing he knew, Thorin was on his side of the ring, Orcrist at the ready and one eyebrow raised teasingly.

 

Even with every nerve in his body alight, Bilbo found it within him to glare at Thorin. Of all the dirty tricks –

 

“Are you ready?” Dwalin called brusquely, arms crossed over his chest as he looked first to Thorin and then Bilbo, who drew Sting. When both nodded, he tipped his head. “Fine. In your own time.”

 

Bilbo consciously loosened his hold on Sting’s grip. Gripping too tightly would do him no good.

 

Thorin took a careful step forward.

 

Breathing out as steadily as he could, Bilbo tried his best to remember what Dwalin had taught him, and tried his best not to panic.

 

Of course, that was easier said than done, especially when there was a great big Gondolin sword coming right at him. Oh, right – he’d best do something about that, hadn’t he?

 

His sword clashed with Thorin’s with a jarring clang, and their duel began.

 

It didn’t take long for Bilbo to figure out that Thorin was holding back. Bilbo was perfectly aware of how much strength Dwalin had in his sword arm, and although Thorin wasn’t as large, his strength had to be similar to the other Dwarf’s. Yet Bilbo found that he could guide Orcrist away quite easily. Rather than feeling flattered, aggravation started to bubble in his chest.

 

So he started to push.

 

Sting curved through the air at a furious pace, meeting with Orcrist again and again. Thorin, clearly shocked, was forced backwards. There was something like awe in his face.

 

He didn’t leave Bilbo with the advantage for long, though. Thorin whirled on the spot, his sword coming around in one sweeping motion that had Bilbo backpedalling furiously to escape. Instead of following up with another blow, however, the King stepped back. The point of his sword had not listed downwards, but he looked wary and seemed to be assessing Bilbo.

 

At this brief respite, Bilbo took the opportunity to swipe the back of his hand over his forehead. The sweat on his face trickled down his neck and into his collar.

 

Thorin’s eyes followed the motion, his thin lips parted ever-so-slightly.

 

A pleased shiver ran up Bilbo’s spine, even as he flushed. When Thorin’s gaze lifted, Bilbo smirked, unable to help himself. He then lifted his free hand to beckon Thorin forwards.

 

Thorin treated him to the barest flash of a smile before he bellowed and rushed forward, obviously trying for terrifying. And, perhaps if Bilbo had never met the Dwarf before, he would’ve been intimidated. Now Bilbo could only think of their escape from Mirkwood and how bedraggled Thorin had looked as soon as he’d been free of his barrel. Now Bilbo could only think of straw sticking out of dark locks, and laughed as Thorin charged at him.

 

The crowd had been noisy with their cheers and chattering, shouting encouragement either at the Dwarf King or his intended. Now they were silent. It was apparent that this would not be as quick as any of them had been expecting.

 

Bilbo ignored this. He ignored the tiredness in his arm and the sweat in his eyes. He ignored the temptation to throw Sting down and surrender the match. All his focus was on Thorin.

 

Again their swords met. Bilbo gritted his teeth, the excitement and tenseness in his head muddling his thoughts. What was it that Dwalin had told him? Did Thorin prefer to feint left, or feint right?

 

Left, he found out moments later. Bilbo shook his arm and watched the way Thorin effortlessly flicked his hair behind his shoulders. It took a vast amount of effort not to stare.

 

They clashed together, their swords locking at the guards. Bilbo glanced up into Thorin’s eyes. He could feel the King pause for a second, before his weight started to bear down on Bilbo. Gritting his teeth, Bilbo valiantly tried to stand his ground but quickly realised that it was hopeless – and so panicked, kicking at Thorin’s knee.

 

He knew it’d do nothing but bruise – if that – but it did take Thorin by surprise enough that he jerked backwards, disentangling their swords.

 

Bilbo slipped. He faltered, trying to right his footing, and that was when Thorin pressed his advantage. It looked like a simple wrist movement and sounded like a short kiss of steel against steel. All Bilbo knew was that his hand was suddenly empty, Sting having clattered unceremoniously onto the floor. There was a cold blade at his throat.

 

“Yield,” Thorin said softly.

 

Bilbo didn’t allow himself to think, didn’t answer, didn’t meet Thorin’s gaze. He dropped to the ground, dropped and rolled and got a good grip around the King’s lower leg before he gave a great yank. He thought that it was the surprise more than anything that made the tactic possible; Thorin fell onto his back heavily, breath rushing out of his lungs and Orcrist escaping his grip.

 

Bilbo knew that it wasn’t enough. He moved as speedily as he could, finding the hidden dagger that Dwalin had told him was strapped to Thorin’s boot. He unsheathed it and scrambled up Thorin’s body, quick as a snake, and held the blade near Thorin’s neck, not quite touching skin. His other hand lay atop Thorin’s wrist, gripping tightly although he was sure Thorin could throw it off easily.

 

“Do you yield, my King?” he panted.

 

They could both hear Dís’ strong laughter off to the side as well as the outraged surprise of her sons. There was babble from the rest of their audience but Bilbo couldn’t make it out past the blood rushing in his ears. It was a miracle that he heard Thorin.

 

“I yield,” the King said quietly. The surprise on his face had melted away into a subtle fondness.

 

“Ah. Alright.” Bilbo sat back and released Thorin’s wrist. After a moment of uncertainty, he held out Thorin’s dagger. “Er, this is yours.”

 

Thorin accepted the dagger, letting his hand fall to his side, but made no other movement beyond staring up at Bilbo. The Hobbit found himself staring back, entranced by the sight. Thorin’s hair was fanned out behind his head, a carpet of black streaked with silver. It made him look younger and less like the stern king he presented himself as.

 

Bilbo was so enthralled he didn’t realise that he’d been gawping. Or that he was still straddling Thorin.

 

“Would you be so kind as to let me up, Bilbo?”

 

Bilbo stiffened before he scrambled off of his suitor. Apologies dripped from his lips as he offered his hands to Thorin, who accepted graciously and got to his feet, keeping Bilbo’s hands enfolded in one of his. Amusement glittered in his eyes.

 

“A fine duel,” Thorin said. “Even if you cheated.”

 

“I did not cheat!” was the indignant reply. “I beat you fair and square!”

 

Thorin held up his dagger. “Not many know where this is kept.” He glanced to the side – presumably at Dwalin.

 

“Yes, well.” The Hobbit cleared his throat, delighting in the warmth of Thorin’s palm (even if it was a bit sweaty). “It hardly matters if I managed to… find out.”

 

“‘Managed to find out’,” Thorin muttered. “Cheater.”

 

Bilbo kicked him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, almost forgot again.
> 
> This is one of my favourite chapters - one I had a plan for before most of the whole story had taken concrete form. Still took a pretty long-ish time to write, 'cause I did try to keep the fight itself as accurate as possible... Did I do alright, you think?
> 
> As always, any guesses for the next chapter? (/runs away to finish chapter nine)


	8. 07 - Fire Burning Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well... I won't spoil it.

_Trust comes in many forms. One must always strive to hold fast to one’s partner’s faith, for losing it is as good as forfeiting one’s courtship. There is no love without trust._

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courting, Chapter Six: Pertaining to the Exchange of Gifts_

 

* * *

 

_September, 2943 T.A._

 

As summer passed and the trees outside Erebor gained the bright colours of autumn, Bilbo found himself the subject of much scrutiny. Hardly any intelligence was needed to figure out that this had to do with his and Thorin’s courtship; more specifically with the outcome of their swordfight.

 

The Dwarves of Erebor largely considered Bilbo one of their own; they understood the role the Hobbit had played in reclaiming their home and in later saving their royal family. It would be dishonourable to treat him with disrespect, seeing as he’d been willing to risk life and limb for Dwarves he hardly even knew.

 

In the year following Erebor's reclamation, Bilbo was treated same as a Dwarf-lord. It helped that he was friendly to a fault; even the most socially inept Dwarf could hold a conversation with the Hobbit and enjoy it. He was offered the best of vendor's wares at the market at discounted prices, he wasn't ignored or belittled or shunned for his Hobbit-ness, and the fact that he was allowed into the kitchens would've been unheard of in any other Dwarf kingdom.

 

Respect took a backseat now. All the Dwarves in the mountain were aware that their King was courting Bilbo Baggins, but not all of them knew what to do with the information. On one hand, Thorin was intent on wedding a non-Dwarf – on the other, this same non-Dwarf was holding his own in their courtship traditions.

 

The simple fact was this: only Dwarves were allowed to know about and take part in _Dwarvish_ courtships. If Bilbo was participating in one, that meant a part of their culture had been exposed to an outsider - and while this had happened before in their history, it didn’t mean everyone was happy about it.

 

The Ereboreans were even less happy about it; considering their abandonment by the other races following Smaug’s attack, they were all the more distrustful than their kin, which was saying something.

 

There were quite a few Dwarves who thought that their King was out of his mind. While they could allow the fact that Thorin's One was not a Dwarf, it still didn't explain why Thorin couldn't have just proposed marriage. There was no necessity to court him as Dwarves did.

 

This sparked disagreement. Bilbo was as good as a Dwarf - he'd proven himself many times over. Why couldn't he be a part of their traditions? He was going to be part of the royal family soon enough.

 

Unaware of these happenings, Bilbo was decidedly nervous and uncomfortable with the increased attention directed at him. He couldn’t differentiate between those who disapproved and those who approved. In fact, in his mind, the Ereboreans either objected to his changed relationship with the King or they thought him an unsuitable candidate for Thorin’s affections. Or they thought the result of their swordfight was ridiculous and that Bilbo had made Thorin look like a fool.

 

Thorin was quick to deny this, though.

 

“You were magnificent,” he said. “Unexpectedly so.”

 

Bilbo… didn’t quite know how to reply. “Thank you,” he said finally, smiling up at Thorin. “I think.”

 

“With more teaching, you’d truly be unstoppable.” Thorin looked unexpectedly happy, even though he didn’t smile. “Do you want to continue training?”

 

He shook his head and quickly apologised, feeling guilty. “I just don’t think it’s required! I’m hardly going to be duelling people, or marching off to war.”

 

“No, you most certainly will not.”

 

Bilbo suddenly found his hand encased in a firm grip. Whatever reply that had been forming on his tongue died away. He stared wonderingly at the perfect way his and Thorin’s fingers slotted together.

 

Thorin tapped his thumb against Bilbo’s, and the Hobbit looked up with a soft gasp.

 

“If you’d permit it, I’d like to continue with the next part of our courtship.”

 

Bilbo reined in the impulse to brush his lips against Thorin’s knuckles. Ever since he’d conceded his love for the King, he found it harder and harder to control his physical attraction. Even holding hands as they were now was sweet torture.

 

“Of course I permit it,” he said, flushing lightly.

 

Thorin bowed over their joined hands. “What would you ask of me, my burglar?”

 

Bilbo tilted his head to the side, coy and crafty. He was perfectly aware of what was expected of him at this point, of what he may or may not ask for. According to his Dwarvish Courtship book, he had to ask for a gift, whether in the shape of a physical offering or a promise or a favour. And while this gift was supposed to be within the bounds of reason, Bilbo was perfectly capable of defending his own ideas of reason and its bounds.

 

So it was with an impertinent set of the mouth that he announced, “I would have one thing from you, O’ King.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“I would like a kiss.”

 

Thorin immediately opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it with a resigned sigh. The look he shot Bilbo was probably meant to be chastising but Bilbo saw the amusement not quite hidden away in his pale eyes.

 

He didn’t expect what Thorin said next.

 

“And I will give it to you freely, in exchange for a song.”

 

“A song?” Bilbo most definitely didn’t squeak.

 

“I am told you write and sing songs quite well, even if you do so rarely indulge others.” Thorin bowed his head a little. “You would do me an honour, if you indulged me.”

 

“V-very well.” Bilbo flexed his fingers nervously. “I will meet you here, at sunset tomorrow. Before dinner.”

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

“Well, it has to be… special. I can’t just sing you any old song, now can I?” The question came out a little more irritable than Bilbo intended, but Thorin appeared to take no offense. In fact, he looked affectionate.

 

“Indeed. ‘Til tomorrow, then.”

 

“Yes.” Bilbo balefully let his gaze follow Thorin as the King left the room. Really. He should have expected Thorin to be cunning. Here he’d thought that he was _so_ clever, bypassing centuries of tradition and tricking a kiss out of him.

 

Several long moments passed before he realised that he’d been staring foolishly after Thorin, a fond smile on his face.

 

Dash it all! He needed to write that song!

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had spent many years of his life dabbling in writing – whether it was fiction, history, poems, or songs. Putting words to parchment seemed very natural to him, and he was quite proud of his work.

 

Showing it to other people was another matter entirely.

 

He sighed and crossed out yet another line. The candle on his desk sputtered and Bilbo stared at it blankly before realising that he should replace it before it burned itself out.

 

Instead of doing that, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and turned to face the fireplace. Fíli and Kíli had found a water clock during one of their illicit visits into Dale and had insisted on purchasing it for Bilbo. He’d been a little flustered by the gift, though he’d placed it on the mantelpiece. He had to admit that it was imminently useful. It was difficult for him to tell time inside Erebor; how the Dwarves managed it was still a mystery.

 

Glancing at it now, he groaned. Half-past midnight. Had he really been up so long?

 

His desk was littered with crumpled and uncrumpled pieces of parchment, all covered in scribbles and ink blots and crossed out words. To Bilbo’s eyes, every new attempt was worst than the last; how was he supposed to finish this in time for his self-imposed deadline?

 

How was he supposed to write a song deserving of Thorin by sundown?

 

The candle died with a final puff of smoke. Bilbo groaned. He knew where the spare candles were kept, but his body felt too heavy to move. Tugging on a stray curl of hair, he attempted another line. What rhymed with blue?

 

Bilbo let his quill fall from his grip, ignoring the way the ink splashed, and shoved blindly at the items covering his desk. He was _not_ going to sing about Thorin’s eyes like a pre-tween’s poem to their ‘sweetheart’. Oh, this was just hopeless!

 

Sighing, Bilbo pressed his cheek against the cool surface of the desk. Perhaps if he rested his eyes, just for a moment…

 

He woke up with a start, heart beating wildly against his sternum. Bilbo blinked rapidly for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Half-formed thoughts and images coalesced and finally melted away as he became fully alert, and he wondered what had disturbed his slumber. Had he been woken by a nightmare? Was someone at the door?

 

In the end he figured that his body was just protesting the fact that he wasn’t in bed. By the light of the dying fire, he could see that it was not yet dawn, according to his clock. Would it be too late to go to bed?

 

Bilbo smacked his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth with a grimace, trying to get rid of the stickiness in his mouth. There was a dull ache in his neck and the small of his back – the result of his foolishness – and he stretched to try to alleviate it somewhat.

 

The involuntary nap had cleared his mind but hadn’t brought forth any bursts of inspiration. Disappointingly.

 

The Hobbit lowered his arms. He felt a little downhearted. Thorin had had such faith in his abilities and Bilbo didn’t want to disappoint him. Especially after his cheeky ‘gift’ request.

 

As he sat in the gloom of his quarters, Bilbo now wondered if he _had_ overstepped his boundaries. Yes, he was aware that kisses in public were only meant to be shared by married couples – but he was also aware that he could ask for _anything_. Kisses surely fell within that sample set.

 

Besides which, Thorin had been at complete liberty to say no.

 

This didn’t really ease Bilbo’s guilt. His gaze restlessly flitted from here to there; finally it settled on the glowing embers that were left of the fire. They glowed in the darkness, dull-red-and-orange. It came to him clearly, then, and suddenly – he was in Bag End, head leaning against the post of his bed, staring into the crackling flames as thirteen Dwarves sang of their lost home. 

 

Bilbo reached for his quill.

 

It was an hour later that Bilbo, happily, tucked himself under the covers and went to sleep. He was quite unaware of the ink across his face.

 

* * *

 

Making his way to the secluded balcony he’d agreed to meet Thorin on, the first thing Bilbo caught sight of was a large Dwarf blocking most of the archway – the imposing silhouette immediately cluing him in to his identity. Surprised, Bilbo hesitated.

 

Dwalin must have heard him, because he turned around. His huge arms were crossed over his chest, and he raised an eyebrow at Bilbo who managed a polite, “Good evening.”

 

“Hmm.” Dwalin stepped aside to let Bilbo pass, jerking his head to the right. “He’s there.”

 

Bilbo started to ask who ‘he’ was, but then realised that would be quite silly indeed. ‘He’ was the entire reason Bilbo was standing here, after all.

 

Thorin was standing by the edge of the balcony, forearms braced against the balustrade. He seemed lost in his thoughts; he apparently didn’t notice Bilbo until the Hobbit was standing beside him.

 

“Hullo, Thorin.”

 

“Bilbo.”

 

Now, Thorin had spoken Bilbo’s name many times in the past; countless times, in derision, in indifference, in anger, in pain. He’d uttered it while smiling and while frowning, while laughing and while dying. He whispered it and shouted it, while they had no one but themselves for company or while amongst strangers and friends.

 

So why now, at this simple and soft greeting, did Bilbo feel like he was fighting against a rushing tide? Why was his heart fluttering against his ribs? Why was his throat bone-dry? Why was he blushing?

 

Good gracious, he was _blushing_.

 

Bilbo flexed his wrists fretfully. Well, well if it wasn’t the way Thorin had said his name – which wasn’t any more special than normal, honestly – maybe his flush was due to the Dwarf’s bearing. Thorin had no call to look so calm and relaxed when Bilbo’s insides were tying themselves up in knots.

 

Or perhaps it was his clothes. The King usually favoured cool colours (blacks and dark blues, mostly) but today his undershirt was pale grey and his tunic was red. Coupled with light armour, Thorin managed to look powerful instead of gaudy as he stared down his straight nose at Bilbo.

 

It was… very fetching. Bilbo was now aware of how small and frumpy he looked beside Thorin, dressed in his usual breeches-and-blouse-and-weskit – and yet Thorin was gazing at Bilbo as if he was clad in the finest of fabrics and crowned with countless jewels.

 

It made Bilbo shiver.

 

Rather incongruously, what followed was the sound of a blade being unsheathed. Both Thorin and Bilbo turned to Dwalin, who was busily cleaning dirt from under his nails with the point of a very sharp dagger. Bilbo hoped that his hand wouldn’t slip.

 

Dwalin raised his eyebrows at them when he noticed their scrutiny. “What? Don’t let me hold you up.”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes, but quite willingly ignored his friend, facing Bilbo again. “I will give you your gift first.”

 

For someone who had anticipated this greatly – even from before he’d fully understood the intricacies of Dwarvish courtship – Bilbo suddenly found himself trembling slightly with nerves. He took a steadying breath. Then another. Then a third.

 

Thorin took a step closer, his entire bearing annoyingly calm. Bilbo – a little hysterically – wondered if the Dwarf would bend down or if he expected Bilbo to tiptoe. His heart fluttered as Thorin stepped nearer still and he had to tip his head backwards to maintain eye contact.

 

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought, cross at himself. _I am not a tween stealing a kiss at Midsummer. I’m a grown Hobbit in the company of a King_.

 

And yet. And yet.

 

Thorin’s hands cupped his face, thumbs gently smoothing over his cheeks. Bilbo suddenly couldn’t think to breathe. Nothing existed outside of the hands on his face and the body standing so close to his, and the way Thorin was gazing at him.

 

Bilbo’s eyes slipped closed of their own accord and he felt Thorin pause, his breath washing over Bilbo’s face.

 

His lips were rough, but the touch was gentle, and Bilbo was lost.

 

He didn’t wonder if Thorin was uncomfortable, bending his neck in such a fashion. He didn’t wonder when or how his arms had found their way around Thorin’s waist. He didn’t wonder how they might look to Dwalin or to anyone else who happened to pass. There were more important things to focus on, like the way Thorin’s mouth moved against his, like the way his head was cradled in Thorin’s hands, like the shaky exhale breathed into the space between them before Thorin claimed his lips again.

 

And then Thorin jerked suddenly, startling Bilbo.

 

They separated, with Thorin throwing an irritated glance at Dwalin (who apparently had decided that they were getting carried away, and had poked the King). Dwalin, for his part, looked unimpressed at the glare, even if there was a smile tucked away in the corners of his mouth.

 

“Um.” Bilbo swallowed and tried to collect his thoughts. “Maybe, maybe I should have gone first.” His lips were tingling, and it took monumental effort not to touch his fingers to them.

 

“Why is that?”

 

He let out a breathy, helpless laugh. “Now I don’t know if I can remember my own name, much less the song I wrote yesterday!”

 

Thorin’s eyes snapped to his in surprise, extreme pleasure and smugness shining through before he could think to control his expression. Bilbo flushed deeply. They stood together for a moment, comfortably silent, before Thorin cast a leery glance at Dwalin. At the lack of any sort of reaction, Thorin took Bilbo’s smaller hands in his.

 

“Am I to take that you liked your gift?”

 

Bilbo felt his face grow even hotter, surprised that that was possible. “Do not tease me.”

 

Thorin tugged his hands upwards, as if to kiss them, but had to consciously abort the action, again glancing at Dwalin like a naughty tween. (This, when Bilbo thought about it, was quite amusing considering how much older Thorin was compared to Dwalin.) He instead brushed large thumbs over Bilbo’s knuckles, making him shiver.

 

Realising that it was his turn, the Hobbit stammered, “Uh, I’ll just, I’ll – I’ll get on with it, shall I?”

 

Thorin merely gazed at him in his characteristically intense way, not replying.

 

Unable to flex his hands nervously, Bilbo cleared his throat several times.

 

 _Come now_ , he thought to himself sternly, _You’ve faced Orcs and Wargs and a dragon – you’ve even faced this Dwarf at his worst, and survived. Surely a song does not require as much courage?_

 

So Bilbo steeled himself, closed his eyes, and sang.

 

“When thou must home to halls deep underground,

And there arrived, a new admired guest,

The beauteous spirits do encircle thee round,

Mighty Aulë, devoted Yavanna, and the rest,

To hear the stories of thy finished quest,

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

 

“Then wilt thou speak of fire burning bright,

Of wars and dragons which sweet youth did take,

Of battles and great challenges in the night,

And all these triumphs for thy people’s sake:

When thou hast told these honours done by thee,

Then tell, o’ tell, how thou didst murder me.

 

“Tell all, my King, tell how with one sweet song,

Tell how thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard a Hobbit did follow,

And tell all who will listen of friendship so strong,

Bonds unbreakable, realized once pride was swallow’d;

Fortified by blood and secured in steel,

Ne’er defeated until the bells of the End peal;

 

“Gather close the guest of thine halls, O’ King,

Speak softly of the Hobbit thou didst steal,

This burglar who longed for the Shire in spring,

Yet with dark and deadly creatures did deal,

Between us there are no regrets, King of mine,

Drawn together by more than Fate’s design.

 

“Across glen and field, across river and mountain,

These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,

With chattering rooks and bubbling fountain,

These comrades in arms around a flickering fire;

Yet only thou hast captured me in whole,

Yet only thou hast captured me mind and soul.

 

“There are many things I have yet to see,

In every wood and every spring there is a different green,

Still my eyes would rather alight upon thee,

Due to the affection thou hast elicit unforeseen;

And I would be contented to wake to thy face,

Until my body and soul have left this place.

 

“Tell thy guest, mighty King, that there is none,

No being on this Middle Earth who can compare;

With morning mist and silver sun,

And the wind upon thine hair.

And for all the wonders that have been,

Thou art the best I have ever seen.”

 

Bilbo let his eyes remain shut for a few moments after finishing, honestly afraid of Thorin’s response. Oh, he was certain that Thorin would be kind with his words and not intentionally cruel. But he was also quite sure that he’d be able to tell if he’d disappointed Thorin.

 

Bilbo braced himself. Opened his eyes. Felt the floor give out from under him for the second time that evening.

 

Thorin looked _shattered_.

 

He knew he was gaping, but Bilbo couldn’t look away from Thorin and the way his eyes were storming with shock and enchantment and frighteningly passionate love. His lips were slightly parted, tongue now darting out to wet them, and Bilbo only now noticed that his hands were being held in a death grip.

 

Bilbo wiggled his fingers a little, trying desperately not to drown in Thorin’s gaze. He was taken by surprise when Thorin released his hands, though not as surprised as when lips descended upon his again.

 

Thorin swallowed Bilbo’s gasp, stole his breath, stopped his heart. This kiss was so much more passionate than their first, never mind that Thorin pulled back after mere seconds. A twist of delight shuddered down Bilbo’s spine and this time he couldn’t stop himself from touching his lips to feel the lingering warmth there.

 

“I…” Thorin cleared his throat and flushed – actually _flushed_! – before carefully saying, “Thank you, Bilbo. That was… that was amazing.”

 

Bilbo smiled a small, pleased smile. His heart threatening to burst, he nevertheless didn’t reply. He’d said all he wanted to in his song, after all – he’d spent most of the morning agonising over what had basically been an open declaration of his feelings. It now looked as if it’d been the right choice.

 

“I’m humbled that you…” Thorin trailed off, brushing the backs of his fingers against Bilbo’s cheek. He looked suddenly tentative. “If, if I were to ask you to sing that again, at a later date… would you?”

 

The answer came too quickly, enough that he coloured with embarrassment. “Yes. For you, yes.”

 

“Thank you,” Thorin whispered, his thumb catching the corner of Bilbo’s lip and making him shiver. “I should… I should let you retire to your dinner.” He sounded entirely unwilling to do so, his other hand having crept to cup Bilbo’s elbow.

 

Dwalin cleared his throat pointedly, and Bilbo jumped. The other Dwarf wasn’t even looking at them; he was leaning against the far wall and appeared to be reading from a small, leather-bound book.

 

When Bilbo looked back at Thorin, the King gave him a sardonic expression. He tugged Bilbo forward so he could carefully bestow a kiss on his forehead.

 

Bilbo exhaled slowly, trying to distract himself from the exquisite ache blossoming in his chest.

 

“Good evening, Bilbo.”

 

“Good evening, Thorin.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and counted to twenty before noisily exhaling. He kicked away his blanket and sat up on the bed, cursing his inability to sleep. He couldn’t think of any explanation as to why; he wasn’t anticipating anything, nothing had happened earlier in the day to make him restless, he hadn’t overstuffed himself at dinner…

 

Though, that might be the solution to his problem. Bilbo patted his stomach and thought for a moment before deciding, yes, it was perfectly acceptable to putter down to the kitchens and fill his belly.

 

He was in for quite a surprise, however, when he opened the door to his room. Perhaps not as much of a surprise as Fíli, who had been leaning against it, and was now grinning up at him lopsidedly.

 

“Hello, Bilbo,” he said, a little sheepishly.

 

The Hobbit hurried to help him up, though Fíli did nothing more than remain seated on the floor. “What are you doing in the hallway?” Bilbo asked, momentarily wondering if there was a threat of attack, and then dismissing the thought as silliness.

 

“Well, uh.” Fíli mumbled something under his breath, blue eyes determinedly looking everywhere but at Bilbo.

 

Bilbo placed his hands on his hips. “Fíli. Tell me now.”

 

“Well, in the case of – um, that is to say…” He chewed on his upper lip thoughtfully, taking time to choose his words. “It’s not uncommon for sentries to be posted outside the doors of courting couples. Just so they don’t, er, get any funny ideas.”

 

Equal parts amused and insulted, Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, “And Kíli’s in front of Thorin’s door?”

 

“Ehh, no. He’s asleep right now; he takes over my shift in a few hours.”

 

“Who’s guarding Thorin’s door, then?”

 

Fíli shrugged a shoulder. “To my knowledge, no one.”

 

“So your Uncle doesn’t trust me?” The Hobbit pursed his lips. It seemed he would have to have words with the King in question. Loud words.

 

The Heir rubbed the back of his neck, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I think he doesn’t trust himself.”

 

Bilbo went red. “Ah,” he says, feeling tingly and pleased all over. He took a moment to adjust his braces over his shoulders. “Well, then, what do you say to joining me for supper in the kitchens?”

 

Fíli all but jumped to his feet and bowed. “After you, O’ Burglar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee. /runs off, cackling
> 
> (Though, I will say that I did write most of the song. The first two stanzas are modified from one of Thomas Campion's works - shoutout to my Man Lab fans - and I think the "In every wood and every spring there is a different green" line is from one of Bilbo's own songs... correct me if I'm wrong.)
> 
> (Oh, and re: Thorin's clothes. *[clears throat](http://whitachi.tumblr.com/post/39800463237/leupagus-richard-armitage-justin-canning)*)


	9. 08 - Dwarvish Dancing Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [suchanadorer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer).

_…importance of dancing may possibly be a source of surprise to other races. We are not considered to be a graceful people – that description is best left to Elves – and observation of the many dances of Middle-Earth has proven that we are indeed not suited to such movements._

_Even so, our dances have been precisely crafted and moulded by years of care; much like a mountain is moulded by miners and equally as organised. Each step of each dance is heavy with meaning. The choice of dance is as indicative of the courtship as the suitor’s first gift to their partner._

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courting, Chapter Seven: Pertaining to Song and Dance_

 

* * *

 

_September, 2943 T.A._

 

“Ah, Bilbo. How are you?”

 

“Dori!” Bilbo smiled and opened his door a little wider, his gaze flitting curiously to the pack the Dwarf had dangled between his fingers. “What brings you here?”

 

“I… the princes may have mentioned to Ori that you and the King are about to start the dancing stage of your courtship. Is that right?”

 

Bilbo expected to feel incredibly embarrassed at this question, but beyond a little shyness, he found that he was instead happy. Giddily so. He smiled widely at Dori, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yes, it is.”

 

The Dwarf nodded. “I may have overheard (not that it’s very hard, mind you, those two have voices as loud as thunder) that Fíli and Kíli are going to teach you the _muhud ejùzer_.”

 

It took him a moment to remember that that was the name of the dance. It’d surprised Bilbo to be informed that there were a great many Dwarvish dances to choose from; he’d never associated Dwarves with dancing. “Yes, but that’s only after the new moon.”

 

“Only, I thought I might help with the, the uh…” Dori broke off and started muttering into his gloved fist.

 

Bilbo recognised the guttural sounds of Khuzdul, even if he didn’t know what Dori was saying. Not for the first time, he clamped down on his frustration at the secrecy of Dwarves. It had always been fascinating to him that a language could remain unchanged ever since it had been taught to the Fathers of the Dwarves by Aulë Himself, and he was still disappointed that he’d never learn it.

 

Finally, Dori shook his head. “I don’t know the word for it in Common. Scarf-chain comes closest.”

 

“And this scarf-chain is… necessary for the dancing?”

 

“Aye.” He bobbed his head in a nod and lifted the pack he was holding. “I can offer my services, if you’re amenable. After all, I taught Ori, I don’t see why I can’t teach you.”

 

“I… thank you, Dori.” Bilbo bowed shortly before stepping back to let the Dwarf into his quarters. “It’s – you don’t have to do this, and I’m grateful for it.”

 

“Nonsense,” was the gruff reply. “You’re part of the Company, and always will be. Now. What skills do you have with cloth?”

 

Blinking, Bilbo answered, “Well, I can darn and patch my clothes well enough. And I can knot.” He made a face. “Not very promising, if we’ve only got two weeks.”

 

Dori ignored this last statement, pulling out a spindle of what looked like yarn from his pack. “Would wool suffice?”

 

“What? Oh, yes, yes. That’s perfectly – do you spin this yourself?”

 

“When I have the time, yes.”

 

Bilbo liked Dori. He liked his food as much as any Hobbit, and was surprisingly decent underneath all his grumbling and his tendency to mother hen everyone into submission. Along the road to Erebor, Dori had shared that he had been a textile merchant in the Blue Mountains and planned on taking the trade up again once they recovered their home.

 

Now his shop was doing very well; Bilbo suspected that even without his share of the treasure, Dori would still have been one of the richest Dwarves under the mountain. He had a head for business and an eye for fashion, he was fond of saying. Nori, of course, would mock that he was a miser and a dandy. This was inevitably met with chortles from Ori and a glare from the oldest of the three brothers.

 

Bilbo wondered if Thorin had commissioned the courting handkerchiefs from Dori. It was entirely possible.

 

 _Let’s see_ , he thought, turning over the spindle of wool Dori had handed to him. _Twelve pieces of – no, six pieces of yarn, folded in half_ … Bilbo made an appreciative noise as he unwound the wool, running it through his fingers; it was very good quality.

 

With Dori watching interestedly, Bilbo first mounted the six pieces of yarn onto one of the Dwarf’s many knitting needles, each with lark’s head knots. Then, with all twelve strands laid out flat, he began to knot.

 

It was actually a very simple repeating pattern and only really made use of square knots. Still, it’d been years since Bilbo had last done even the simplest of knotwork. His fingers fumbled and he had to unpick more than a few loops. Even with the close scrutiny, though, he soon managed to fall into the rhythm of it; calmly – almost meditatively – crossing one piece of yarn with another and pulling them tight.

 

The pieces of yarn weren’t very long – he was just demonstrating for Dori’s benefit, after all – and soon he was finished. Bilbo gave a little satisfied nod after one last look over, and held up his work for inspection.

 

“I think,” Dori said slowly, “if we have the time, I’d like you to teach me this skill, Bilbo. I have a feeling this will be an excellent addition to Ereborean fashion.” He tapped his nose and nodded, once. “Yes. Most definitely. But come – back to business. I have something that’ll go excellently with your work…”

 

The Dwarf mumbled to himself as he dug through his pack, finally pulling out a scarf. It was grey and featured a chunky pattern, the angular sort that Dwarves preferred. Bilbo hadn’t realised that such a thing could be transferred to knitting.

 

“This is what we usually use for the _muhud ejùzer_ , and other dances. It’s my best scoured wool.”

 

Dori passed the bundle over to Bilbo. It was heavier than he expected. Frowning, he unfolded it, discovering that there was a thin strip of chain mail stitched along the scarf.

 

 _Aha_ , he thought. _Scarf-chain_.

 

“These scarves are called the erzûkh-inùkûd.” Fiddling with the end of it, Dori continued, “It’s said that Dwarves used to make these for their Ones – they offer warmth and protection both, and are prized possessions even now.”

 

“And I have to make one for Thorin,” Bilbo said flatly. He traced the interlocking weave, absently recalling that his father had known how to knit.

 

“Don’t worry, Bilbo.” Dori cheerfully clapped him on the back, making Bilbo wince. “I think you’ll take to knitting like a duck to water.”

 

Well, they’d just have to see, wouldn’t they?

 

* * *

_Mid-September, 2943 T.A._

 

“Can someone explain to me how both combat and dancing are part of the courting rituals of Dwarves?”

 

Fíli tugged one of his moustache braids thoughtfully. “To be fair, Bilbo, the two require skill with footwork. They are not so unrelated as you think.” He made a contemplative noise. “I’d never thought I would say this, but I think your skill in sword fighting may surpass that of your dancing. Do Hobbits not dance?”

 

“Of course we do!” Bilbo protested as he tried not to trip. “Ours are just not as… structured.”

 

“Stop looking down,” Kíli instructed. “And lift your heel a little when you step – yes, that’s right. You know, Fíli, maybe we should take a trip West and see this unstructured Hobbit dancing for ourselves.”

 

“A capital idea, little brother. Naturally we shall have to stay in Bilbo’s burrow –”

 

“It’s not a burrow!” Bilbo interrupted hotly. “And it’s not mine anymore!”

 

“– and break all remaining furniture,” Fíli continued, as if he’d not heard the protest.

 

“Stop teasing the Hobbit, my lads,” Dís warned, voice as stern as steel. She was stitching chain into the scarf Bilbo had made. (He had mastered basic knitting quite quickly; possibly a legacy from Bungo.)

 

“Yes Mother,” Kíli said meekly, getting to his feet. “Come along, Bilbo, we’ll try again.”

 

Bilbo was debating whether he should be whiny and refuse (because he was actually tired and muddled) when Fíli came to his rescue.

 

“No, no, let him sit down. Maybe a demonstration will work better.”

 

Kíli frowned down at his brother. “And who’s going to be demonstrating?”

 

“The two of us, you clot.” The older of the two princes cuffed him non-too gently on the ear. “Come along, get in position. May I borrow this, Mother?”

 

“Hmm, no. Use that shawl over there,” Dís said, gesturing with her chin. “The rust coloured one, Fíli. Yes.”

 

“Ooh, it looks good on you, brother mine,” mocked Kíli, twirling out of the way of the ensuing swat. “Hey, how come I’m the suitor here?”

 

“Because you look more like Thorin,” was the pert reply, “and I look more like Bilbo.”

 

All in the room laughed, except for the Hobbit in question. “We look nothing alike!” he spluttered.

 

“That’s true; he’s nowhere near as ugly as you are, brother!”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. To forestall an argument, he broke in pointedly with a question that’d been needling him all day. “Not to cause offense, but why are the two of you teaching me this? Surely you have duties you must carry out?”

 

Neither spared him a glance, Kíli adjusting the scarf around Fíli to his exacting standards. “This could be considered one of them.”

 

“There are others who could teach you, yes,” Fíli said, anticipating Bilbo’s next question. “But none are as close to you. As princes we were – unfortunately – forced to learn the more formal courting dances, which Thorin will no doubt favour.”

 

That sounded reasonable enough, Bilbo conceded, sitting against the wall and pulling his legs to his chest. He also admitted – in the privacy of his own mind – that he was far more comfortable with the prospect of learning dancing from his friends rather than a complete stranger. Despite all the teasing.

 

Bilbo felt a pang of loneliness in his heart, and dared to hope that one day these three may properly become his family.

 

Dís, never once looking up from her work, started to hum. Fíli and Kíli faced each other, and Bilbo rested his chin on his knees and watched.

 

The _muhud ejùzer_ started with a bow from both the suitor and their partner. The suitor stepped forward first, as Kíli did with his right foot, snaking his hand out to grab the end of the shawl. As this part of the dance was very sedate, Bilbo had no trouble following Kíli’s movements; left foot crossed behind, right foot forward, and then step – left forward, right step, right forward, left step.

 

As the suitor completed the circle around the partner, the other end of the scarf-chain was held fast in the partner’s left hand. Fíli smiled at his brother as he did so, and Kíli stuck out his tongue.

 

They moved together, now; Kíli led with his left with Fíli mirroring him. They were matched in this as they were in many things – Bilbo thought it was due to their having learned together in the first place. He briefly entertained the image of them as young Dwarves, barely taller than a Hobbit, attempting to stomp on each other’s feet.

 

Bilbo shook his head to focus. The two had already moved past the simpler steps and had wound their respective shawl ends around their wrists. Now came the dashed confusing part of the dance and Bilbo leaned forward so he could observe their feet better.

 

As far as he could make out, the princes stamped their feet every third beat, and kicked out every alternate fourth beat. Between these, however, it was a mess of intricate slides and steps that had Bilbo almost cross-eyed trying to follow.

 

The dance dropped back into simplicity afterwards, mirroring the beginning; the partner would now wind the scarf-chain around the suitor. After the scarf was in place, the partner would make one more circle before they both bowed and ended the dance.

 

This Fíli and Kíli both did, and as their mother stopped humming, they turned to Bilbo expectantly.

 

He grimaced. “Could you… could you show me the middle bit again, slowly?”

 

It was going to be a long month.

 

* * *

 

_Durin’s Day, Mid-October, 2943 T.A._

 

Bilbo was first and foremost a Hobbit – obviously – and so it wasn’t very surprising that he often looked at people’s feet. (It was a fascinating pastime, especially since leaving the Shire.) It was what made him immediately notice Thorin’s boots. Instead of the usual well-worn and steel-capped clodhoppers, these were soft-soled and supple. The sight was equal parts odd and sensual, and Bilbo flushed slightly when he looked up and met Thorin’s eye.

 

“Are those Dwarvish dancing boots?” he asked, feeling a little foolish even as the question left his mouth.

 

Thorin looked amused and shook his head, no. He offered no explanation.

 

Bilbo frowned and prompted, “Then why the change?”

 

“I do not wish to crush your toes, should anything go wrong,” Thorin rumbled.

 

“Oh.” That simple courtesy made him feel absurdly pleased, right down to his aforementioned toes. “Well, that’s very considerate, thank you.” He smiled at the King. “Though I think it will be me stepping on yours.”

 

“Perhaps,” Thorin said mildly. “And, perhaps, if you are not too tired after, I will show you another reason for my wearing them.”

 

“Now that you’ve made me curious, I think I will need to have broken my legs before you can stop me from trying to find out.” Bilbo was thrilled when Thorin chuckled at this, blue eyes warm.

 

“Let us hope that it doesn’t come to that.” He paused and stepped close. “Did you make this?” Thorin asked. His eyes looked like they were filled with the midnight sky as he touched the scarf around Bilbo’s neck.

 

“I did. Although your sister helped with the chain.” Bilbo smiled. “And Dori taught me how to knit in the first place.”

 

“This is not knitted,” Thorin observed, his hand lingering where the plum-coloured wool met the steel and sending a jolt through Bilbo’s body.

 

“It’s knotted. Hobbits often make use of them. Knots, I mean.”

 

A small, pleased smile appeared on Thorin’s face. “So you have merged Dwarf and Hobbit craft.”

 

“Well, that’s hardly – I had help, after all, and –”

 

Thorin placed his fingers against Bilbo’s lips to stop his babbling. He didn’t remove them as he said, lowly, “It’s very fitting.”

 

The fleshy pads of Thorin’s fingertips caught Bilbo’s lower lip as he lowered his hand. Bilbo, already terribly flushed, felt his ears burn when the thought cropped up that it wasn’t just Dwarf and Hobbit _craft_ that needed merging.

 

He almost clapped a hand to his mouth. Goodness! He was a respectable gentlehobbit, and gentlehobbits did _not_ go around thinking such things! No matter how tempting their courtship partner was, and how – _no! Stop it, Bilbo._

 

Thorin very benevolently didn’t mention what Bilbo was sure was a spectacular blush. “My sister-sons told me a little of how your lessons went.”

 

“Either they exaggerated my skills, or they recounted every mistake I made in painful detail.” He scowled.

 

“They had nothing but kind words, I can assure you.” Thorin didn’t smile, but his eyes twinkled teasingly. “I greatly anticipate viewing the fruit of their efforts.”

 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Bilbo muttered, fiddling with the scarf-chain. Ohh, he was going to make such a fool of himself.

 

"Anyone who has faced a fire-drake should not worry about dancing," Thorin said and now he was smiling for real.

 

Bilbo huffed. Well that was easy enough for him to say. Maybe the ones that had faced a dragon and gotten eaten and/or burnt to a crisp for their efforts didn't have to worry about dancing, but as for the rest…

 

"I'd say that those who _have_ faced a Dragon have certainly earned the right to worry about whatever we please." Like dancing, and how to get through said dancing with at least a shred of dignity intact. Maybe Thorin should have worn his regular boots. Bilbo would be stepping on his toes enough times for him to probably need them.

 

Unconsciously having looked down at the ‘not-dancing boots’, Bilbo felt himself flush again and quickly raised his eyes. "But I'm sure it'll be fine," he continued and hoped his smile didn’t look strained. "Shall we begin?"

 

Thorin nodded and took a step back. Bilbo shivered a little. He hadn't realised how much heat Thorin had been giving off, but it certainly was noticeable when it disappeared. He watched the King flick his fingers towards the troop of Dwarves (the musicians) standing and sitting off to the side – and wasn’t that just great? More people to witness his abject failure.

 

Bilbo schooled his expression. It wouldn’t do to look dejected while dancing. He could do that, at least.

 

They bowed to each other.

 

As always, Thorin’s movements were slow and deliberate. He did not touch any part of Bilbo’s body when he reached for the end of the scarf-chain. Every beat of music sang through Bilbo and made him hyperconscious of Thorin’s position. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end when the King disappeared out of his line of sight; knowing that Thorin was behind him but being unable to see him made it hard for Bilbo to exhale.

 

He fancied that he could again sense the heat of Thorin’s body, but that was likely nonsense. The Dwarf was standing too far away. No, what he definitely felt was the sensuous slide of soft wool against his neck and the cool air that rushed in to take its place.

 

Bilbo took a breath as he met Thorin’s eyes, and twisted his wrist in time with the music.

 

He was sure his heart was beating faster and faster as they edged ever closer to the complicated part of the dance. He was going to ruin it all, he just knew it –

 

Kíli’s voice echoed in his head. _Stop looking down_ , he’d always said, and Bilbo obeyed now. He kept his eyes on Thorin’s face. It seemed – it seemed a safe enough option.

 

Amazingly enough, it was also an option that worked.

 

What happened was this: Bilbo ignored everything but Thorin. Oh, he was peripherally aware that he was moving, that his feet were all but flying beneath him, sliding and stepping across the smooth marble floor. There were surely things that existed beyond the King, but Bilbo could see nothing but those pale eyes staring back at him.

 

Stamp foot, step forward, slide away, twirl in. They moved around each other fluidly, as if they’d done this all their lives, never once brushing the other. The scarf remained twisted around their wrists, unknotted and un-kinked. The chain chimed gently in time with their movements.

 

Bilbo couldn’t help his smile as he kicked his left leg out for the last time. That is, until he realised what came next.

 

Now it was his turn to dance alone and Bilbo was all too aware of Thorin’s eyes on him, all the more intense now that he was the only one moving. Bilbo again willed his feet not to falter. He did not want to disappoint Thorin by blundering now.

 

It was hideously difficult. He felt caught by those bright eyes, Thorin’s gaze steady and captivating. Bilbo was relieved once his steps took him around Thorin and out of his sightline. But now there was the strong line of his back and shoulders to take in. There was the strangely intricate braiding of his hair, coiled and held by a single gold clasp. There was the soft green tunic that so nicely complimented the scarf Bilbo was loosely winding around Thorin’s neck.

 

Symbolically, the dance was a representation of their courtship; at first the suitor was in control and then as time progressed, both had equal responsibility. Then, at the end, the partner would decide the fate of the suit. Dís had explained all this to Bilbo with a smirk on her lips, a reminder that she was aware that he’d long started preparing that final gift.

 

Too soon, he was again standing before Thorin, letting his end of the scarf fall free from between his fingers. Bilbo’s breath caught as he drank in the sight of the King, so utterly relaxed and striking. He looked up into Thorin’s face and found that he couldn’t look away from the bare emotion there, the shyness and the happiness and the affection.

 

Bilbo didn’t know what sight he himself made.

 

“Still willing to continue?” Thorin asked as Bilbo started his final turn.

 

Bilbo’s answer was a short nod. He wasn’t so sure he could string any number of words together; he’d been so caught up in his observations. Thorin’s smile at his wordless reply was no less distracting, but Bilbo luckily managed the last steps without tripping or bumping into the King. They bowed, and Bilbo surreptitiously sighed in relief.

 

The music, ever in the background, did not stop but changed. The tempo turned faster, the notes more spirited, the song…

 

 _Familiar_ , Bilbo realised with wide eyes.

 

Thorin openly grinned at him as he offered his hand. Bilbo could only gape.

 

“How?” he managed to croak out, still unable to move.

 

Thorin’s face softened. “I learned. As you did.”

 

It must have been Dís, Bilbo realised. No other Dwarf could be responsible. She must have picked it up when she’d stayed at Bag End as he’d gotten the last of his affairs in order. Amazement suffused through the Hobbit as he laughed, delighted, and gladly slipped his hand into Thorin’s.

 

Hobbit dances were known for their speed and their liveliness, reserved as they were for celebrations and parties – weddings and birthdays and the like. Bilbo couldn’t remember the last time he’d danced like this, around and around in a loose circle with Thorin’s large hand fitted to his waist.

 

It wasn’t the twirling that made Bilbo dizzy.

 

It was the openness of Thorin’s expression, the way he didn’t stop the smile from appearing on his lips. It was the way his hand enfolded Bilbo’s smaller one, warm and strong and slightly sweaty. It was the way his steps were so nimble and almost perfect, like he’d practiced and practiced for hours on end.

 

It was those eyes, sparkling, just for him.

 

When Bilbo inadvertently stumbled, all it did was bring him closer to Thorin, so he just laughed again.

 

Bilbo wished that the moment would last forever. He wanted to treasure the sunlight slanting onto the warmed marble floor. He wanted to always have this music playing in his ears. He wanted for Thorin to gaze at him like that at all times and to keep the accompanying thudding of his heart in his chest for the entirety of his years.

 

…actually, that last might just come true – if he said yes at the end of all this.

 

Come the part of the dance where they separated, Bilbo smiled brilliantly at Thorin as he skipped in place. He lifted his arms over his head, twisting his wrists and swaying his hips. The happiness that had filled his entire body lightened his feet and turned him graceful as a bird on the wing.

 

Thorin was not so elegant. His movements were minimal and stilted, and Bilbo’s smile grew all the wider for it.

 

When the last notes died away into the rapidly approaching night, Thorin and Bilbo had come together again, lingering in a loose embrace. Neither was willing to move and neither noticed when the musicians crept away. It would have been the perfect moment for Bilbo to rise on his toes and close the distance between his and Thorin’s mouths, it would have been so _easy_ … but he restrained himself, unwilling to ruin the moment.

 

Honestly? Their dancing had been more intimate than a kiss could ever hope to be.

 

Thorin stroked the side of his face, and there was softness in his gaze enough to make Bilbo’s heart hurt. He closed his eyes and turned his face into Thorin’s palm, lips brushing skin in a not-quite kiss. The indrawn breath this brought forth was barely audible and this time Bilbo’s ears burned with delight.

 

He thought… he thought he was quite ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muhud ejùzer - blessing-chain. Ssh.  
> erzûkh-inùkûd - rain threads, in reference to the Aran Island fishermen, and their sweaters.
> 
> Songs in this chapter in the order of bottom to top with regards to their 'use':  
>  **[Beloved](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yg74CE4O9hA) by Yiruma** is the song Dis hums  
>  **[Gaelic Morn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZWFVW76LaU) by Bruce Mitchell** is the Dwarvish song Thorin and Bilbo dance to  
>  **[The Cuckold Comes Out of the Amery](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gf44BuH-0_I) from the Master & Commander OST** is the Hobbit song Bilbo and Thorin dance to
> 
>    
> Dwarvish dancing is based on several Jewish dances (mitsve tants, Hora, Freylekhs) and the minuet. The former because Tolkien did compare the Dwarves to Jews of Earth. The latter I can sort of dance now, thanks to research.  
>   
> I hope you enjoyed this one! I know I did!  
>   
> ([Oh, and psst, if you enjoy Rule 63'd Bagginshield.](http://fembagginshield.tumblr.com/) We're having a FemBagginshield week starting on the 27th!)  
> 


	10. 09 - Dextrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gifts are again exchanged as we near the end.

_When it came time for Nalir to request a gift, she did not know what to ask of him. It was after weeks of uncertainty and deliberation that she met with Broll and took his hand in the doorway of his forge._

_She asked him to go on a quest._

_She did not specify what the purpose of his quest should be – it would be up to him to decide – because the true value of this request was that Broll had never before ventured outside the mountains they called their home. Nalir made it clear then that if he chose to decline, she would not hold him to it – but Broll wanted nothing more than to prove himself to the Dwarf that had captured his heart so thoroughly. He kissed her fingers and made his request of her – and on the morrow, shouldered a pack and left his home._

_When he returned months later, it was with the pelt of a great bear (and an impressive collection of scars), fashioned into a coat that fit Nalir perfectly._

_That night, as was requested, Nalir unbound her hair for him and let it fall loose around her face and shoulders and down her back, making her look like the sun itself. If it was possible for Broll to fall even more in love with her, it happened then._

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Preface: Pertaining to the History of Courting_

 

* * *

 

_Mid-December, 2943 T.A._

 

Bilbo bounced on his heels, hands folded behind his back as he smiled shyly up at the King. It was truly amazing how he’d changed so far during the eight-and-a-half months of the courtship and how much he was looking forward to its conclusion. “What would you ask of me, Thorin?”

 

“Winter solstice is tomorrow.” At Bilbo’s nod, Thorin took a breath and said, “It would honour me if you were to sit at my table, by my side.”

 

A little alarmed (and insulted) at the simplicity of Thorin’s request, Bilbo said, “I will do so gladly.”

 

Thorin nodded. “It would further honour me if you were to braid my hair before the feast.”

 

“Oh!” Bilbo boldly reached out to take Thorin’s hand, and was elated when Thorin let him. He kept his gaze down as he traced the back of it with his fingers. “That’s another task I’ll do gladly. If you agree to do something in return for me.”

 

Thorin was smiling. “And what is that?”

 

“Well, it’s occurred to me that while you’ve sampled my cooking skills, I’ve not had the pleasure of having that favour returned.” Bilbo frowned when the hand in his tensed. “Thorin?”

 

“Are you sure that's a wise idea?”

 

“Why, I –” He shook his head. There was no point trying to force Thorin into doing something he obviously didn't want to. He wouldn't have wanted to force Thorin, in any case. “It’s fine, you, we can agree on something else.”

 

“No.” Thorin touched two fingers to Bilbo’s nose. “I… can do it. I will do it.”

 

It took a massive amount of self-control not to twitch any muscle in his face. Who knew he could be so conscious of such a small touch? Bilbo’s heart only stuttered back to life when Thorin retracted his hand.

 

“I will prepare a meal for you in two night’s time.” As he said this, the fist by his side shook slightly. Bilbo thought it’d be rude to point it out, so he didn’t.

 

“I look forward to it, my King.”

 

Thorin nodded. “And now that that has been settled, might you join me? I planned on visiting the main marketplace this afternoon. You’ve been before, haven’t you?”

 

“I have. Though never with Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain.”

 

“And you shan’t now. May I accompany you as your suitor, instead?”

 

Bilbo bit his upper lip and cast his gaze on Thorin’s chest to hide what he was sure was a giddy expression. “You may. As long as you don’t insist on buying the whole marketplace.”

 

Thorin gently placed a hand on Bilbo’s elbow to encourage him down the corridor. “And what is wrong with buying you the occasional gift?”

 

“ _Occasional_?” He snorted inelegantly. “Thorin, you can’t keep getting me things I’m hardly going to use. I mean, I appreciate it, I really do. But you shouldn’t – I won’t have enough place in my rooms for _me_ , much less all these gifts. Where would I _sleep_?”

 

Thorin paused, an odd expression on his face. Bilbo didn’t get to find out what it was – or what Thorin’s reply would have been – because Dís appeared before them, smiling pleasantly. She was particularly striking that day, clothed in a purple gown and a sheer ivory-coloured overrobe. Aquamarines dripped from her ears and beard.

 

“Thorin. Might I borrow Bilbo for a moment?”

 

The King raised an eyebrow. “As long as he’s returned in one piece.” He twitched his pale lips at the both of them. “I will see you, Bilbo.”

 

“Yes. See you,” Bilbo echoed.

 

Thorin smiled slightly and bowed his head. Bilbo made sure to watch his retreating back, and only turned to Dís once he was fully out of sight.

 

She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. She never did.

 

“Has my brother asked you?”

 

Questions immediately sprang to mind: what was Dís talking about? What was Thorin supposed to have asked him? Why did Dís care in any case? Why should –

 

He thought about what had just happened prior to Dís’ arrival. The puzzle pieced together with a snap – much like when he’d discovered Thorin to be the sender of the handkerchiefs those months back – and Bilbo, who hadn’t before grasped why Dís was so insistent on his mastering four-strand braids, shook his head wryly. She was devious.

 

“Yes. He did ask me to braid his hair tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, _good_. I was rather hoping that he’d get around to it before you two wed.”

 

“Did you suggest it to him?”

 

“Well, no. I just know my brother.” She took a breath. “And I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself when you go to him tomorrow.”

 

Bilbo gaped at her, shocked beyond all prospect of protest – although he did manage to rally enough sense of mind to do so. “Excuse me! I would _never_ –”

 

“Really, Bilbo? You would _never_? You’ve never, not once, been tempted by my brother?”

 

He coloured. “Being tempted is not the same as acting on it –”

 

“Which is what I’m warning you against.” Dís smoothed one of her eyebrows. “Thorin will not lay hands on you inappropriately until he is allowed to do so by our laws. So I must impress their importance upon you, instead.”

 

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek. Truth be told, he’d be more insulted at Dís’ insinuations if they hadn’t held a grain of truth in them. But he was perfectly capable of controlling his urges. “I’ve managed to keep to them for the better part of a year,” he said.

 

It looked like Dís was about to argue further, but she only smiled. “So you have.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo could count the number of times he’d been to Thorin’s personal quarters on one hand. Oh, alright, he’d only been there the once – Fíli and Kíli had commissioned him to steal something for a ridiculously elaborate prank. What could he say? Sometimes they had ideas that were too good not to be seen through. And it had been hilarious to watch Thorin as he –

 

Shaking his head a little, Bilbo cleared his head of the memories, as amusing as they were. The last time he’d been here had been with the help of his ring (which, now that he thought about it, he’d left in his room. He frowned). This time he’d have to be visible, and he’d be alone with Thorin, in his _rooms_ –

 

Well. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. First things first.

 

Bilbo raised a fist and knocked on the door.

 

“Enter.”

 

He pushed the door open, careful of his burden. “I’m not too early, am I?” Bilbo asked lightly, using his heel to kick the door closed before he looked up. “Only I wasn’t sure how long I’d…”

 

Thorin straightened.

 

“…need.” Bilbo cleared his throat.

 

Damn everything.

 

“You’re not too early,” Thorin reassured, a ghost of a smile on his face. “You just have to oblige me as I finish getting ready.”

 

Bilbo would have replied – he should have replied – but he made sure to keep his lips tightly sealed. He wasn’t sure what would’ve come out of his mouth if he opened it, and he wasn’t willing to embarrass himself to find out.

 

Oh, why hadn’t he dithered a little more over his clothes? If he’d been less sure about choosing the cream-coloured waistcoat over the green one, he was sure he’d not have to suffer through this vision of Thorin without his shirt.

 

He almost groaned. Suffer was right.

 

Thorin had no business being endowed with such wide shoulders. It was obscene. Weirdly, without the additional bulk of his many layers, they looked broader than usual. Bilbo’s eyes took the sight in greedily before continuing downwards, over prominent collarbones to Thorin’s chest proper, with its glorious spread of chest hair. Dark, thick curls that were calling out to Bilbo, _begging_ him to bury his nose in.

 

Bilbo knew from experience the feel of all that hard muscle, honed by years of lean meals and hard work and war. He wondered now how different it would be to press his body against all that bare skin, to touch as much as he wanted, to unlace the laces that Thorin was now knotting tightly.

 

His gaze travelled further south and he nearly whimpered. The King’s feet were _bare_ , for goodness sake.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

His eyes immediately snapped up to more… appropriate areas. He desperately cast his mind about to cover his inattention. “Is that new?”

 

Thorin looked puzzled for a moment, before following the line of Bilbo’s finger. He glanced at the thick cuff around his upper arm. “I’ve worn this since before I met you, my burglar.”

 

“Oh.” He kept his eyes on the silver band and tried not to think about whether or not it’d be skin-warm to the touch. “Must not have noticed it.”

 

“What’s in the box?”

 

Bilbo looked down at it, grateful that he could avert his gaze. “You’ll find out later. Hurry up and get dressed.”

 

Thorin laughed at his waspish tone (Bilbo prayed that he hadn’t figured out the cause of his discomfort) and obligingly, _thankfully_ , reached for his undershirt.

 

“Where, er, where should I sit?” _Not on the bed, please, if there’s any good in the world_ –

 

“One of the armchairs by the fire,” Thorin said. “I’ll sit on the footstool, that should be low enough for you.” He grinned when Bilbo grumbled. “Here, I’ll fetch my brush.”

 

As he crossed the room, he pulled first his arms and then his head through his shirt. Bilbo, who was most certainly not watching avidly as Thorin’s back muscles rippled, felt his mouth go dry as a bone.

 

_Oh, my_.

 

He sat down with a muffled thump, wondering briefly if Dís had mentioned their conversation to Thorin, and whether this was all an elaborate and deliberate ploy to tease and test him. But no. Thorin wouldn’t have gone along with such a trick, even _if_ Dís had proposed it.

 

Bilbo watched as Thorin cursed and bent over to retrieve his dropped brush, and watched the material of his linen breeches pull tight.

 

Thorin _probably_ wouldn’t have gone along with such a trick.

 

He bit his lip. Thorin hadn’t straightened. Bilbo’s gaze hadn’t wavered.

 

“Do you… do you need help?” he asked tremulously.

 

“No, I’ve got it,” Thorin grunted as he stretched his arm a little further under the dresser. The action made his back arch even more and his – and, er –

 

Um.

 

Bilbo resolutely – and with some difficulty – turned away to wedge the box he held between the arm of the chair and his thigh. He tapped his nails against the top of it, listening to the fire crackle.

 

Now, what was it he’d said to Dís yesterday? Being tempted wasn’t the same as acting on those urges? Well, he’d hold to that. He was perfectly capable of controlling himself. He was.

 

Casting his eyes about for a distraction, Bilbo’s eyes focused on the chair he was seated in. It was infinitely comfortable, now that he was paying attention to appreciate it. The cushions must have been stuffed with goose down or something equally as soft, and the whole thing was upholstered in flax scrim. It went well with the warm accents of the room – yes, including the thin veins of gold that ran across the floor like lightning against the sky.

 

Other than his chair, there was another matching one opposite, both inclined towards the fireplace. (He could only see the one fireplace. Perhaps the other was behind the screen in the middle of the room? Bilbo could only assume that the bed was beyond that as well and – alright, best stop those thoughts right there.)

 

Some ceremonial weapons were displayed on the walls. Maybe if the mountain was ever attacked they’d be of use? Bilbo snorted softly. It was a bit difficult to envision Thorin running into battle with a gold-toned curved blade. He was willing to wager that Orcrist was by Thorin’s bed, within close reach should the King ever be caught unawares.

 

Aaaand there he was, back to thinking about Thorin’s bed.

 

“What’s got that frown on your brow?” Thorin asked, jolting Bilbo out of his circuitous thoughts.

 

It was very unfair that Thorin looked even more sinful clad in ceremonial garb than he’d done with just his breeches on.

 

His undershirt, as Bilbo had noticed earlier, was gray blue and plain. The tunic that went over it was purple lawn, with silver stitching along the high collar and the hem. Bilbo’s fingers itched to trace the repeating pattern.

 

Even his boots were eye-catching; they reached just under his knees, with leather straps wrapping around to secure them on his legs, and silver buckles that shone in the firelight.

 

A large finger tapped his forehead and Bilbo irritably swatted it away. Something tugged viciously low in his belly when Thorin chuckled.

 

“Here,” the Dwarf said, handing over a brush and a bottle of oil. Bilbo accepted them both, considering the gracefully curved glass bottle as Thorin sat down (as promised) on the footstool in front of him.

 

“Is this from the vendor we met yesterday? The one from Harondor?”

 

“Yes. The trees from which they harvest the oil only grow in that climate.”

 

Bilbo only now noticed that Thorin’s hair was completely loose and free of braids. It gave him a strange sort of thrill and he dared even to gently grasp a lock of it. “That would explain why you knew each other.”

 

“Hmm,” was Thorin’s non-committal reply, and he leaned back a bit so his back rested against Bilbo’s knees.

 

Bilbo swallowed, uncorking the bottle and splashing the oil onto his palm. Thorin hummed low in his throat as the Hobbit started rubbing it into his dark hair. Bilbo ended up using less than he’d expected to, and spent a long moment after brushing it just sifting that soft hair through his fingers. He brushed against the back of Thorin’s neck quite accidentally.

 

“You’re very tense.”

 

Thorin’s shoulders hunched forward a little. “It’s not very often that people have their hands near my neck.”

 

Bilbo froze. “If you’re uncomfortable –”

 

“It’s fine.” Thorin turned to smile reassuringly, and his hair slipped through Bilbo’s loose grip like water over river stones. “How do you want me?”

 

_On your back. And if you could remove your shirt, that’d be just lovely._

 

He almost sighed at the thoughts that thundered through his head. Bilbo gritted his teeth. “Face the fire, if you will. Or – no, face me. I might as well do both sides at the same time.”

 

“As you command.”

 

Bilbo started with the four-strand braids that Thorin usually put in his hair, in front of his ears, and carefully fastened them with Thrór’s and Thrain’s beads. Thorin didn’t ask him where he’d gotten them – he didn’t appear to have noticed their use, to be honest. Instead he was happy to stare at Bilbo.

 

Bilbo tried not to notice this.

 

“Turn around,” he said softly, and Thorin obeyed without complaint.

 

Using Fíli’ and Kíli’s jewelled beads, Bilbo made two small braids at Thorin’s temples, pulling some of the hair back from his face. (It pleased him absurdly that some of Thorin’s silver hair ended up in the braids as well.) He then brought the braids together with a larger section of Thorin’s hair, securing the lot with Dís’ pearl clasp. With that same section, he made a large plait with Frerin’s clasp swinging from its end.

 

Bilbo touched Thorin’s shoulder. “Let me see you.”

 

Thorin rose and turned to face him.

 

Bilbo sat down suddenly. Oh.

 

“Surely it can’t look that bad.”

 

“Oh, no,” he said a little breathlessly. “Not at all.” Bilbo was rather proud of his efforts – or he would have been if he’d had the presence of mind.

 

Thorin looked like he’d stepped out from between the pages of some fey tale; he looked regal and imposing and achingly, _achingly_ beautiful. Perhaps Bilbo’s vision was a tad biased. It didn’t matter. In this moment, the way the braids pulled away the hair from Thorin’s face was enough to leave Bilbo speechless, and he didn’t care one whit.

 

While he was not-caring, Thorin had caught one of the beads – the blue-and-silver one. A pained expression crossed his face before it was chased away by blankness. “Dís’ work?” he asked.

 

“Yes, I…” Bilbo lowered his gaze. “I hope I haven’t overstepped by – I can replace them with your own beads, if you like.”

 

Thorin slid his fingers under Bilbo’s jaw, tipping his face upward. He caught and held Bilbo’s gaze. “You haven’t overstepped. The gesture was… sweet.” Thorin dropped his hand to take up Bilbo’s, and kissed Bilbo’s fingers. Every one of them. “Thank you, my dextrous Hobbit.”

 

He couldn’t speak. Not to give the traditionally formal reply, not even when Thorin tugged him to his feet.

 

“We’d best leave. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

 

Bilbo almost squeaked. “Aren’t you going to take a look at yourself first?”

 

His smile was entirely too smug. “I don’t think I have to.”

 

* * *

 

After the feast, Bilbo bid Thorin keep the beads and clasps. They belonged to Thorin’s family, after all – and as he’d said to Dís, he certainly had no use for them.

 

He also made it a point to decline Thorin’s request to help take down the Dwarf-king’s hair. While he hadn’t overindulged himself with ale, Bilbo didn’t want to find out what’d happen if he ended up in Thorin’s quarters at such a late hour, with the fire burning low and his fingers buried in thick, dark locks.

 

He rather thought that Dís would be proud of this restraint.

 

It didn’t stop his rampant imagination, though. Bilbo went through his pre-bed routine feeling like he was floating (probably thanks to the alcohol in his bloodstream). When he housed the lights and settled his head on the pillow, magnificent dreams awaited him, and he sunk into them gladly.

 

Bilbo woke up in the morning with a spectacular blush and a hideous headache, and wondered how on earth he’d be able to face Thorin that evening.

 

* * *

 

If there was one thing for Bilbo to be very grateful for, it was that a night of drinking had never resulted in nausea. Many a lad in the Shire had been quite put out that Bilbo’s appetite didn’t suffer even after a boisterous night at the Green Dragon. Even more luckily, this seemed to have carried over even to Dwarvish ale – a very, very good thing, as it turned out.

 

Thorin’s shoulders slumped minutely. “You don’t like it.”

 

“No, no – I do! Of course I do!”

 

Thorin had the gall to look amused as he gently grasped Bilbo’s wrist and lowered it to save him from another mouthful of the (overly) salted pork. “Do not lie to spare my feelings, Bilbo. My ego is not so fragile as that.”

 

He wisely refrained from commenting on that statement. “You, you could have refrained from using so much salt. Um.”

 

“Oh, was that what was wrong? I thought I’d under-seasoned it.”

 

“Did you actually taste this beforehand?”

 

The Dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow. “Is that normal practice? I thought one only ate food _after_ it was cooked.”

 

Bilbo leaned forward, utterly fascinated. “Gracious, have you _never_ done this before?” It was true that Thorin had never been in charge of preparing food while they’d been on the quest, and that now of course he was served food from the kitchens, but… “You’ve spent years on the road.”

 

As soon as he said it, Thorin’s expression closed off abruptly. Bilbo bit his lip, tasting the salt there, and mentally shouted at himself. What an idiot he was.

 

“Thorin, I’m sor –”

 

“When you’re on the road,” Thorin said quietly, cutting his apology off, “sometimes you don’t have the luxury of a hot meal. We made do with bread and dry meat and fruit… if we could get them.” His eyes stared unseeingly at a point on the table and he fingered one of his beads – Thráin’s, Bilbo realised with a jolt. “And there were many, many days in which we went hungry.”

 

Miserably, Bilbo too lowered his gaze. He hadn’t meant to drudge up such dreadful memories; he’d only been _teasing_.

 

“Circumstances improved, of course. We settled ourselves eventually. But even then I was too busy to learn, too busy to feed myself. Most of the time it was better just to spend my coin on food for Dís and the lads. They needed it more.”

 

Oh, why hadn’t he held his tongue? How spoiled he must have seemed – must still seem – to the Dwarves, with his pantry that was as big as a bedroom yet solely for him (and the occasional guest). How pernickety and finicky he was, to comment about seasoning when the Dwarf before him – and many other Dwarves besides – had had days and days of no food _at all_.

 

Bilbo wanted to reach out and cup Thorin’s cheek, he wanted, he wanted to take the King into his arms and press Thorin’s head to his chest. He wanted to take away every bad experience of his past and bury it in the deepest, darkest part of the world. He wanted to replace them with new memories – memories of happiness.

 

Memories of love.

 

“I didn’t mean to cause insult,” he murmured. “I didn’t know.”

 

The splintered laugh that emerged from Thorin’s throat _hurt_. “You do not have to apologise, Bilbo. I could have said no. I didn’t.”

 

His chest hurt acutely and suddenly, as if something was squeezing his heart to a pulp. He raised a hand and tentatively touched Thorin’s shoulder. “I think I can fix this.”

 

“How can you fix my inadequacies?” was the flat question, and Bilbo almost hit Thorin.

 

“I would like to alter the request I made of you. Is that done?”

 

“Not that I have heard, no.”

 

Bilbo stuck his nose into the air like he’d seen Lobelia Sackville-Baggins do so many times. “Well, it’s done now.”

 

Even considering the weightiness of their earlier conversation, Thorin couldn’t stop a smile from curving his lips as he finally looked up. “What is this alteration, then?”

 

“Instead of you cooking me a meal, I want to teach you to cook.” He paused for a beat to gauge Thorin’s reaction, then took a large hand in his own. “Do you accept?”

 

“That doesn’t exactly constitute a gift from me, does it?”

 

Bilbo refrained from rolling his eyes. “It’s what I want, and from you, so it does constitute a gift. Do you accept?”

 

He would have missed the tiny nod if he hadn’t been scrutinising Thorin so closely.

 

“Good.” Before Thorin could react, he kissed the back of his hand, and then started tugging on it. “Now, come along, let’s go see if we can beg scraps off of Bombur.”

 

“I am a king,” came the dignified reply, even as Thorin allowed himself to be dragged along. “And I do not beg for scraps.”

 

“Well, when the King ruins dinner, he leaves me with no choice.”

 

“I thought you said you liked it.”

 

Bilbo grinned.

 

* * *

 

With Thorin’s schedule being the way it was, it took two weeks. Two weeks and Bilbo was sat at the table with the King hovering by his side worryingly.

 

Bilbo swallowed his mouthful of (suspiciously crunchy) omelette, and smiled up at his suitor. “That was lovely.”

 

Thorin _blushed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was alright. Thank you to all of you who are still reading this fic.
> 
>  
> 
> I... am not in a good place right now. Chapter 10 is all written up, but Chapter 11 and the epilogue are woefully lacking. I meant to have everything finished by now, but I can't. I will do my best, but I thought I'd tell you now. I'm sorry.


	11. 10 - Shale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last step of the courtship. Of course things don't go as planned.

_As the end of the courtship approaches, it falls on the partner’s shoulders to steer its course. It is now that the suitor truly sees the efficacy of their efforts; a poor show will doubtless lead to sloppiness and uncaring on the partner's part, and rightly so._

_Should the suitor have carried out their duty properly, and well, then the partner's final gift will prove that the couple's betrothal is a definite eventuality. It will prove that love has firmly taken root, and that two Dwarves have found their Ones._

_—Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Chapter Six: Pertaining to the Exchange of Gifts_

 

* * *

 

_Late-January, 2944 T.A._

 

“I am unhappy,” Thorin said plainly.

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. The first few times Thorin had expressed disparaging opinions on Bilbo’s trip had been endearing, to be sure. Now he just sounded like a petulant child, and the Hobbit took great pleasure in saying so.

 

The King glared. “I am not a child. I’m just… I don’t see why you must leave, and to Dale of all places.”

 

“Dale is a perfectly respectable city, and you know it.” Bilbo frowned. “Or have you forgotten what we owe Bard?”

 

Thorin held up a hand to forestall an argument. “I only meant that it seems odd for you to want to visit a place so close to Erebor.”

 

“Would you rather I holiday somewhere farther, then? Rivendell, perhaps – or even all the way back to the Shire?”

 

Bilbo suddenly found his hands intercepted, interrupting his packing.

 

Thorin looked pained. “That is not what I want.”

 

“I know,” Bilbo soothed. “But I promise you, Thorin, this is absolutely necessary. I wouldn’t be going otherwise.”

 

“What’s so important that it can only be seen to in Dale?”

 

Bilbo gently extricated his hands and again started to fold his shirt. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He smiled at the silence this statement precipitated and even managed to finish packing. He shouldered his small pack and smiled at Thorin. “Will you be seeing me off, my King?”

 

Thorin immediately fell into step beside him.

 

A pony was already saddled and waiting for Bilbo, but before he could make to mount it, Thorin had caught his arm.

 

“Let me send guards with you.”

 

This triggered a laugh out of Bilbo. “Thorin! Dale is within sight of Erebor! You said as much yourself, not minutes ago.”

 

“It is cold,” Thorin insisted unrepentantly.

 

“And that cannot be changed by any number of guards.” Bilbo shook his head when Thorin tightened his jaw and looked away. “I will be perfectly fine. I'm wearing this utterly silly cloak you gave me, aren’t I?”

 

At this, he frowned. “It's not silly. It will keep you warm.”

 

“Beyond a doubt. It’s just a little more extravagant than I am used to.”

 

The mulish set of Thorin’s mouth was only cementing his ‘petulant child’ image. “If you do not like it, then –”

 

“Oh, stop that,” Bilbo snapped. “You're being preposterous. I should leave without saying goodbye, that’ll teach you.” Honestly, Thorin had the social skills of that one Troll they’d come across, the one with the nasal congestion problems.

 

Thorin let go of Bilbo as if scalded, looking hurt. Normally, that look would have had Bilbo sighing and apologising, but today he refused to do so. Thorin had been particularly pigheaded these past few days, and Bilbo uncharitably thought that his time away would be good, if only to escape the Dwarf’s oppressive presence.

 

Then Thorin went and ruined his righteous anger by abruptly deflating. “I will miss you,” Thorin muttered quietly, almost inaudibly.

 

Bilbo decided that he’d teased Thorin enough today. “I'll miss you, too.” He sunk into the welcome circle of Thorin's arms, eyes fluttering closed when the King pressed his nose into Bilbo’s curls. It was almost enough to make him want to stay, and drat his plans.

 

Practical to a fault, though, Bilbo made himself pull back. He tiptoed so he could press a chaste kiss to Thorin’s bearded cheek. “I’ll return soon. You’ll hardly notice I was gone.”

 

His hand found the curve of Bilbo’s cheek. “I very much doubt that,” Thorin said dryly. He looked like he was about to say something else, but didn’t. It seemed to take him massive effort to withdraw his hand.

 

Bilbo mounted his pony and made himself comfortable before smiling down at Thorin. Thorin gazed stonily back.

 

“Two weeks,” he said, encircling his hand around Bilbo’s ankle. “Any longer than that and I will come and pluck you from Bard’s halls myself.”

 

“Ridiculous Dwarf,” Bilbo said fondly. “Goodbye!”

 

* * *

 

Another shiver raced up Bilbo’s spine and made him scowl. His feet felt frozen, the curls upon them depressingly damp. He’d been forced off of his perch by an unfortunate accident; his pony had unknowingly stepped into a ditch and was now limping. Too far forward to turn back, but not close enough to Dale to continue riding, Bilbo had hopped off Shale and started leading him towards the city.

 

He patted its neck absently as they continued on. “C’mon, boy,” he said, teeth chattering a little. “We’re almost there.”

 

“Bilbo Baggins!”

 

Bilbo’s head snapped up. He recognised that voice –

 

“Bard!” He smiled as best he could up at the Man. “It’s been too long!”

 

“Indeed it has. I was glad to receive your letter.”

 

The Hobbit took in Bard in his sensible winter clothes, and wondered what he was doing out in the snow. “I didn’t think the King greeted all his guests outside the walls of his city,” he teased.

 

“I am not yet king, Master Baggins,” Bard replied, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What has happened to your mount?”

 

Bilbo gave him the long and short of it and endured the ribbing it earned him. In what seemed like no time at all, he was ushered into a wonderfully warm hall and bid to sit by the fire.

 

“Addre – my hostler – has said that he’ll see to Shale for you. And I can guarantee that the man works wonders with horses. He nursed mine to full strength when she suffered from colic.”

 

Bilbo, having been wrapped in a warm and _dry_ blanket, merely nodded in acknowledgement. He smiled at the young girl that set a bucket of warm water in front of him. (Well, thanks to his near-frozen feet, the temperature felt like it was near-boiling, but that wasn’t something he would complain about.) His feet fit quite neatly into said bucket.

 

“What’s new with you, Bard? I hope the winter’s not been too rough on Dale.”

 

“We’ve been lucky. Though there’s been talk of a wolf prowling near the walls; that’s why I was out in the snow. I wanted to see whether it was true, or if it was just some stray dog.”

 

This time, Bilbo’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with the history of the Shire. If there indeed was a wolf about, he was extremely glad he and Shale hadn’t come across it.

 

Sensing the Hobbit’s discomfort, Bard cleared his throat and stoked the fire. “Deralia is expecting twins,” he said, smiling with all the pride of an expectant father. “We hope that they’re girls.”

 

“That’s wonderful! When will they be born?”

 

“Summer, if all goes well. My wife is resting right now, but she’ll be joining us for dinner. She’ll be more than happy to furnish you with the grisly details, I can assure you.” Bard’s smile morphed into a wicked grin. “For now, you must tell me how you’ve captured the Dwarf King’s heart.”

 

Bilbo turned scarlet.

 

* * *

 

A week later and Bilbo was very much enjoying his stay in Dale. Bard was excellent company (as was the rest of his family, if they were available), and Bilbo had made good progress with his gift to Thorin. He was seated in the library. Bard had just returned from a meeting with his guildmasters and was seeking advice regarding bringing more greenery to the kingdom.

 

“– actually, my garden was – and is – well tended to by my gardener, Hamfast Gamgee. If you like, I could –”

 

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, my Lord. I’m sorry for interrupting.” The young boy in front of them carried the crest of Dale, a gold disc with a dragon’s head and a single arrow across it, signalling him a (possibly distant) relative of the King. He waited until Bard nodded before continuing, “A Dwarf from Erebor has delivered a message for my Lord Baggins.”

 

Bilbo wanted to protest the use of the honorific, but knew from experience that it was an exercise in futility. “What is this message?” he asked instead, curious.

 

The boy drew a breath. “The King Under the Mountain has been taken ill. King Thorin is at death’s door.”

 

Bilbo’s mind shut down.

 

He was barely aware of Bard’s demands for the messenger to repeat himself and barely aware of the steadying hand on his shoulder. He blearily agreed to the suggestion that he leave straightaway, and that his things would be sent to the mountain after him.

 

He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten mounted, and rather suspected that he’d been lifted into the saddle.

 

“I can’t take this pony, Bard,” Bilbo murmured, the first audible words he’d uttered since they’d been told that… since they’d been told the news.

 

The man shook his head, unsmiling. “It’s the fastest way for you, since yours is injured. We’ll collect it later. Now you have to go to Thorin, and be at his side.”

 

Bilbo’s eyes burned, and he ducked his head. “Thank you.”

 

Bard didn’t reply, instead slapping the pony’s flank and spurring it forward.

 

His gaze never wavering from Erebor’s great gates, Bilbo anxiously clenched the reins in his hands, tightly enough that his mount tossed her mane nervously.

 

Away from prying eyes, Bilbo allowed himself to cry. Only for a moment, but he let himself go completely, the cold wind biting at his wet cheeks. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he’d been in similar circumstances.

 

Yes, the last time he’d had to be by Thorin’s bedside, the Dwarf King had been suffering from several life threatening wounds instead of some mystery disease. That did not change the fact that the messenger had clearly mentioned the words ‘Thorin’ and ‘death’s door’ in the same sentence.

 

A dull ache started throbbing at the base of Bilbo’s skull.

 

He could see, all too clearly, Thorin lying on his back pale and painfully still. It’d be difficult even to tell if he was breathing, and he wouldn’t respond when Bilbo took his hand, or whispered his name, or pressed their lips together –

 

Bilbo covered his mouth with his palm.

 

Oh, how could the Valar be so cruel? Bilbo had been utterly wrecked after the Battle of the Five Armies, barely able to function or even speak – and at that point he had for his part been only friends with Thorin.

 

He could no longer call the love between them purely friendly. He did not want to. Bilbo was proudly certain that he was in love with Thorin Oakenshield – and it was unfair that Eru would take this love from him.

 

Bilbo clenched his jaw tightly enough that his teeth hurt. He would not lose faith so easily. Should it be necessary, he would fetch King Thranduil himself, or even Lord Elrond from Rivendell if he had to.

 

Once he reached Erebor, his worry had caught up with him again, and he gabbled out hopefully-coherent instructions regarding the handling of Bard’s pony.

 

Then he ran.

 

Bilbo remembered his etiquette enough to knock on the door, but he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into the room before there was an answer.

 

Dís, seated by the bed, looked up from her book. “You're back early.”

 

Somewhat mystified by her apparent lack of worry, Bilbo took a hesitant step inside. As he let the door shut behind him, he cast an anxious glance at the figure bundled up in blankets. “How is he? I was told it was bad.”

 

“It's just a fever and cough.” She frowned. “Who said –”

 

A dry, cracked voice interrupted her. “Bilbo?”

 

“You should be asleep,” Dís scolded, thwacking the bundle on the bed, causing Thorin to groan weakly. She softened her gaze when she turned to Bilbo. “And you shouldn't worry.”

 

His laugh was a little frenzied. “It’s hard not to worry when you’ve been told the King is on his deathbed.”

 

“ _What_?” Bilbo flinched back, not so much at Dís’ roar, but at the way she flung her book to the ground. “Who has told you this lie?”

 

“It was – there was a messenger. A Dwarf, but I did not meet with him. He passed the information to one of Bard’s young lads, who came to me while we were sharing a midday meal.” He swallowed. “I came as soon as I could.”

 

“ _Bilbo_.”

 

Dís pursed her lips and jerked her head towards the bed.

 

Thorin looked awful, but awful in the acceptable sense of being miserably ill instead of deathly so. His skin was flushed as a tomato and he was sweating despite the shivers that wracked his body ever so often. His eyes were barely open, and he moaned softly when Bilbo pressed a hand to his too-hot forehead.

 

“You’re here,” Thorin murmured.

 

“Rest,” Bilbo said soothingly. “I’ll stay beside you until you’re better, I promise.”

 

The barest twitch of Thorin’s lips suggested a smile. “Bilbo,” he said again. “Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“Ssh. Sleep.”

 

Thankfully, Thorin was delirious enough to forgo his usual obstinacy and it wasn’t long before his breaths became steady. Bilbo espied a cloth by a basin of water, and set himself to the task of wiping away Thorin's sweat. As he worked, he asked, “How long has he been unwell?”

 

“For a week,” Dís answered readily. “Mayhap more, knowing my brother and his insistence on working through his ailments. The fever set in two days ago.”

 

“He's lost weight.”

 

“Only a little.” Dís raised an eyebrow. “We're a hardy folk, as I'm sure has been impressed on you many times, Bilbo. You shouldn't fret.”

 

His smile was wan. “It's difficult not to.” Bilbo placed the damp cloth aside and smoothed the hair away from Thorin's face. “I know now he'll be as right as rain but – when I heard the news…”

 

He could hear the frown in her voice. “About that… are you sure you have no idea who the messenger was?”

 

Shaking his head, he said, “No. I didn't see him. I think the only one who'd give the best description would be Bard's herald, but –”

 

“Then I will ask him.” Dís picked her book up, sighing as she straightened. She brushed the cover absently, thoughts clearly miles away.

 

Bilbo's fingers stilled where they were stroking Thorin's brow. “Why is this important?”

 

“Rumour mongering is dangerous.” Dís’ gaze was flinty. “We’re lucky this Dwarf’s message only reached you and Bard. There are those who will march on Erebor at the slightest whiff of instability.”

 

He nodded. It was a valid concern. “We should probably send word to Dale, then.”

 

“Yes. I’ll draft a letter and –”

 

When Dís abruptly stopped speaking, Bilbo looked up, wondering what had distracted her. This was answered when the princess strode over to the door and jerked it open. Her sons only just caught themselves from falling forwards.

 

“Uh. Hello Mother.”

 

“And hello, Bilbo.”

 

Dís’ eyes were slits.

 

“We, ah, we just came up to check on Thorin,” Fíli said, his hand tight around his brother’s forearm.

 

Kíli nodded emphatically. “Yes! Because he’s sick and we want to make sure he’s… alright.”

 

“Oh, no,” Bilbo sighed. “You two idiots.”

 

“Uncle Bilbo –” Kíli started.

 

“Don’t ‘Uncle’ me,” he snapped. Walking towards the two, Bilbo peripherally noted how Dís was now smiling creamily. “What were you thinking?”

 

Fíli stared at his feet. “We just thought you’d like to be by Thorin’s side. And we knew he was too proud to send for you.”

 

“Did you really figure that I’m so unmoving that it’d take the possibility of death to get me here?”

 

Neither Fíli nor Kíli met his gaze, shamefully ducking their heads.

 

“We didn’t mean any harm,” the younger of the two said softly.

 

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Bilbo glanced at Dís, who nodded a little. He then reached up and twined a lock each of Fíli’ and Kíli’s hair around both his forefingers – and yanked them both down to his face level. “And yet you caused it all the same.”

 

“But we made sure only you would hear the news – ouch!” Fíli winced as Bilbo gave his blond hair a merciless tug. “Not so hard!”

 

“Listen carefully, both of you. I thought Thorin was dying, or dead. I’ve already had to go through that once, and that was one time too many.” His breath shuddered as he shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he levelled Fíli and Kíli with a severe look. “I didn’t appreciate the reminder.”

 

“We’re… we’re sorry, Bilbo,” Kíli murmured.

 

“We didn’t think.”

 

“That much is obvious,” Dís drawled, making her sons wince.

 

“Hmm.” Bilbo tugged on their hair again, this time more gently. “ _Don’t_ do it again. To me or to anyone. Do you understand?”

 

Both started nodding vigorously.

 

“We will!” Fíli cried hurriedly.

 

“We promise!”

 

“It’ll never happen again!”

 

Rolling his eyes and letting go of the remainder of his simmering anger, Bilbo released them. He even managed to dredge up some amusement when the princes straightened and complainingly rubbed their scalps.

 

“While I’m in favour of your guilt-inducing methods,” Dís said, “are you not going to punish them?”

 

Bilbo let her see the laughter in his eyes when he bowed smartly to her. “That I leave in your capable hands, Highness.”

 

Fíli and Kíli looked appropriately horrified.

 

“My thanks,” Dís said graciously before rounding on her sons. “First you two will ride to Dale yourselves and explain this whole sorry mess to King Bard.” As she swept out of the room, the princes exchanged miserable glances but fell into step behind her. “And then, my lads – then your punishment will truly begin.”

 

Bilbo snorted. He should’ve felt sorry for Fíli and Kíli but he couldn’t say that punishment wasn’t justified. Perhaps it would help curb their meddling, if only for a little while.

 

Having shut the door and pulled the chair closer to Thorin’s side, Bilbo sat down and sighed. “Your nephews are hellions,” he remarked softly, glad that Thorin was still asleep. “I feel sorry for you and Dís and their father more and more each day.” He huffed and traced the King’s large fingers, oddly bare without his usual ring. “Although I suppose I can see their motivations, even if I disapprove.”

 

In response, Thorin’s every inhalation took on an odd whistling noise.

 

“Charming as always.” He impulsively leaned down and kissed Thorin’s knuckles. He kept his lips against the clammy skin. “Unlikely as it is, you’d better not die, Oakenshield. I don’t want to resort to Necromancy just so I can be properly angry at you.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure if he was joking or not.

 

* * *

 

He stirred when he felt fingers sifting through his curls. Without opening his eyes, he caught Thorin’s hand and pressed it to his cheek.

 

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he said, words slurring together, tongue still sluggish with sleep.

 

“You shouldn’t be –” Thorin cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t be sleeping here.”

 

“Hmm.” Bilbo pushed himself a little further along the road to wakefulness. “I’ll sleep where I like.” He finally opened his eyes and braced his elbows on the mattress. Keeping Thorin’s palm against his skin, he tried to determine if the fever’d abated any. “How do you feel?”

 

“Sore,” Thorin grumbled.

 

“To be expected,” Bilbo said soothingly, stroking the back of the large hand in his grasp.

 

Even in poor health, Thorin pulled himself together enough to tease Bilbo. "Should you really be alone by my bedside?"

 

“I think I can control myself, your Majesty… considering I’d rather not be covered in your sweat.” Bilbo stifled his giggle at the annoyed look Thorin levelled at him. “At any rate, we're not alone," he said, gesturing with his chin.

 

Thorin turned his head to see Dís curled up on top of the coverlet, seeming to only just notice her presence. At the fond look on the King’s face, Bilbo’s chest steadily became more and more sore, a crux of exquisite pain. He exhaled shakily.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said, and Thorin turned back to face him, frowning slightly. “I should’ve been here.”

 

“You couldn’t have –” He coughed wetly for a moment. “You could not have known.”

 

“Then I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Thorin –”

 

Bilbo thought that Thorin had started coughing again, but then realised that the King was _laughing_. “Burglar, I’m _sick_. This is nothing. I am not going to die.”

 

Apparently Thorin had a talent of unerringly hitting the nail on the head and Bilbo gasped, pulling away and allowing Thorin’s hand to fall onto the bed. All traces of sleep had left him, and Bilbo clenched his fists in the sheets.

 

In the face of Thorin’s confusion, Bilbo lifted his chin and said, as steadily as he could, “I will beg your pardon, my King, but I have sat by your bedside while you lay still and unmoving, pale as parchment and half a moment from death.” His eyelids fluttered closed to hide the familiar burn of tears. “Please understand that I do not want to repeat the experience.”

 

And he didn’t. Bilbo could remember the aftermath of that battle all too clearly. He remembered stumbling blindly on the battlefield, lips cracked and eyes wild. He’d lost blood and his left arm hung by his side, useless – but when he’d been summoned to the King’s tent, he’d hurried there without a word.

 

Bofur, who had gone to fetch him, had later murmured that he’d looked like a spectre.

 

Bilbo could remember how Thorin had been stripped of armour and clothes, leaving him only in bandages to bind his wounds and furs to keep him warm. It hardly offered any modesty, but that hadn’t been anyone’s concern at the time. His skin had been sallow where it’d been free of ugly bruising. Each thin breath seemed to pain him.

 

Bilbo could remember how he’d kept vigil by Thorin’s cot. He could remember how he’d insisted on helping to treat Thorin so that the healers could work on other wounded people. He could remember his hot, bitter tears sobbed into the nights as he cursed his foolish naïveté, and cursed Thorin’s pig-headedness.

 

Bilbo could remember all of this. He’d just rather not.

 

Thorin drew him out of his thoughts by sliding his fingers along Bilbo’s knuckles. When Bilbo met his eyes, he said gravely, “I did not mean to belittle your concern.”

 

“No, you’re right.” Bilbo kicked his feet against the bed frame. “I’m overreacting.” Now he just felt small and stupid for fretting excessively.

 

There was silence, broken only by Dís’ soft snores and Thorin’s wheezing breaths. Bilbo jumped when Thorin’s hand wrapped around his wrist tightly, or as tightly as he could in his present state.

 

“Come here,” he whispered.

 

In spite of his embarrassment, Bilbo found his lips twitching. “Have some propriety,” he said. “Dwarf.”

 

Thorin tried to look chastising. “We are almost betrothed.”

 

Bilbo swallowed. That was true. “But we aren’t yet.”

 

“You’ll be atop the coverlet,” Thorin pointed out. “And we have a chaperone besides.”

 

“Our chaperone,” Bilbo said, nevertheless getting to his feet, “is asleep.”

 

“No, she’s not,” Dís growled. “And if you two don’t shut up soon, I’ll make you regret it.”

 

“Sorry,” Bilbo whispered. Having clambered onto the bed, he let Thorin pull him close. He touched a hand to Thorin’s neck and sighed. “You’re still very warm.”

 

“I will be fine. I promise.”

 

Bilbo just hummed in response and placed a kiss on Thorin’s bearded chin before he could talk himself out of it. Then he tucked his nose under Thorin’s jaw and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2944 T.A._

 

For everyone’s peace of mind, Thorin was not informed of Fíli’ and Kíli’s involvement in the whole affair. The lads’ punishment was already being taken care of, plus Thorin was better off concentrating on getting well, instead of yelling and elevating his blood pressure.

 

Bilbo suspected that Thorin knew, though. He also suspected that he was the cause of Fíli’ and Kíli’s newly-developed limps, as if solid kicks had been delivered to their bums.

 

He wasn’t too concerned about this, though. Any reprieve from the brothers’ mischief, no matter how brief, was to be savoured. He also had more important things to be concerned about.

 

“My present to you, Thorin Oakenshield, made by my own hand and crafted with love.” These weren’t the traditional words, but the general idea was there. “It’s… not yet complete, but I want to show you what I have written.”

 

Thorin’s hands curled over the edges of the book. “You wrote this?”

 

He nodded shyly. “I went to Dale so I could write up the first chapter without interruptions.” Said interruptions being a certain two princes. “I have notes for the rest of it, but it will take me a long while yet to finish, I think.”

 

“And I am the first to read this?”

 

“Apart from me, yes.” Bilbo met Thorin’s smile with one of his own.

 

“Then I am honoured, my burglar.”

 

Bilbo bit his lip, feeling absurdly pleased. He lowered his gaze to the red-leather of the cover. He’d written ahead to Bard to ask him to keep an eye out for such a thing, and the Man had provided beautifully. He’d also insisted on refusing Bilbo’s offer of payment, cheekily saying that it would do well as an advanced wedding present. “Will you read it now?”

 

Thorin’s hand fit under his chin, tilting his head upwards. “Would it please you if I did?”

 

Not trusting himself not to squeak, Bilbo nodded.

 

“And it isn’t just because you want the book back to complete it?” Thorin smirked when Bilbo started spluttering.

 

“No! I mean – I mean, yes, of course I’ll have to take it back to finish it, but the book is _yours_. And I just, I’d like if –”

 

“Peace, Bilbo. I was only teasing.” His thumb, large and calloused and dry, smoothed over Bilbo’s lip, almost unconsciously, and stopped whatever reply had been forming on Bilbo’s tongue. They watched each other for a moment longer, before Thorin cleared his throat and set his hands on the book in his lap. He opened it and paused at the title and the distinct letters of Bilbo’s name. He glanced warmly at Bilbo and then turned to the first page.

 

Beside him, Bilbo held his breath.

 

“In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit.”

 

Quite unconsciously, as Thorin read, Bilbo curled up on the seat beside him, leaning his head against Thorin’s shoulder and placing his hand in the crook of his elbow. There was only the barest of pauses before Thorin’s narration went on as smoothly as ever, and Bilbo sighed happily.

 

His other hand pressed against his chest, trying to physically suppress the sweet pain there.

 

When Thorin closed the book gently, Bilbo closed his eyes. Thorin’s warm breath ruffled Bilbo’s curls as much as the nuzzling explorations of his nose. It was quite a novel feeling, and it sent goosebumps and tiny shivers racing down his neck, all the while tugging insistently at his belly.

 

He’d swear that he felt lips brush the top of his head.

 

“Thank you, my burglar. I cannot think of anything more perfect to have received.”

 

“It gladdens my heart that this gift pleases you,” Bilbo murmured, before forcing his head up and smiling at Thorin. “And perhaps it will gladden you to know that I started on it in mid-spring.” Almost when Thorin had started the courtship. And Thorin realised it, too.

 

The expression on the King’s face was… it was like a punch to the gut. Bilbo’s eyes fluttered closed when a distinct kiss was placed in the middle of his forehead.

 

“And you will be writing about our whole adventure?”

 

Bilbo smiled, liking the way he had referred to it as ‘our’. “Yes. I’ve actually come up with the ending already.”

 

“That is quite irregular.” Thorin looked amused. “Will you tell me what it is?”

 

Bilbo smiled softly and leaned close to Thorin, circumspectly and very deliberately curling his fingers over one big thigh. Keeping his expression innocent, he whispered in Thorin’s ear:

 

“And he lived happily ever after… until the end of his days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still haven't finished Chapter 11 or the epilogue. Which is (not) funny, seeing as I've written the post-epilogue. In any case there's still a week.
> 
> I want to thank every one of you who had a kind word to say in the last chapter. It really helped knowing you guys are behind me. Honestly.
> 
> (Some good news: After Courting Habits is finished, I will be posting a new Mafia AU... as soon as I find a beta. It's all written, just needs to be betaed.)
> 
> Also: FemBagginshield Week 2013 is going on over on Tumblr, do join in! [[link](http://fembagginshield.tumblr.com)]


	12. 11 - Harpery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the courtship comes to a close.

_Once the final gift has been presented, there are only two ways for the courtship to conclude. Either both parties agree to dissolve the courtship, or the partner proposes marriage. Whether or not the courting couple retain their friendliness (in either situation) is at their discretion._

_In the case of proposing marriage it must be, as the courtship was initiated, done so via a bequest. This should be both consequential and practical - though not necessarily made by one's own hand. Indeed, it is said that if a couple is destined to wed, this step is merely a formality and that it should take less time rather than more can only be seen as favourable to the partner and suitor both. Indeed…_

_— Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Chapter Eight: Pertaining to Betrothal_

 

* * *

 

_Late February, 2944 T.A._

 

Bilbo was fretting.

 

He was perfectly at liberty to, considering he had to come up with a gift idea for his betrothal to Thorin, and he was _running out of time_.

 

Very well, it wasn’t strictly necessary that he propose marriage on the same day as Thorin proposed the start of the courtship - but Bilbo rather thought that it gave the whole thing a nice sort of completeness, like a circle being started and finished on the same point.

 

His self-imposed deadline meant that he had a week remaining. And no ideas.

 

He was surprised when he went down to the kitchens (some fizzy, warm apple cider and maybe some pork chops would help him think better, no doubt) only to be intercepted by Bifur.

 

It wasn’t hard to recognise the Dwarf, even in the semi-gloom of the hallway (it was a little too early for all the lamps and torches to be fully lit), but Bilbo still dragged Bifur along with him to the brightness of the kitchens. Being that Bilbo could not understand Bifur’s Khuzdul (or any Khuzdul, for that matter), he needed to depend on facial expression (as much as Bifur could manage) and the Dwarf’s hand signs.

 

Bilbo didn’t know Iglishmêk. Of course not. But he and Bifur had spent enough time around each other for him to be able to figure out some of the more basic signs. He couldn’t translate full sentences of whatever Bifur signed, but he could usually figure out every other word and fill in the rest. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it did work. Mostly.

 

“Hungry?” Bilbo asked, pouring cider for them both.

 

Bifur shook his head, no. He took a large gulp of his drink before replacing the cup in its exact position. Bilbo squinted at his hands as they formed semi-familiar symbols.

 

 _Think… search… you… kitchen_. Ah. ‘ _I thought I’d be able to find you in the kitchen_.’

 

Bilbo laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’m quite predictable. But I do my best thinking when my tummy is full.”

 

The Dwarf tipped his head to the left twice, a signal that he too was amused. ‘ _Betrothal gift?_ ’

 

“Yes. I’m going to run out of time. I’m a terrible courting partner.” In the absence of any pork chops (none that were marinated for long enough, at any rate), Bilbo had found some ginger biscuits and bit into one morosely.

 

‘ _I thought there wasn’t a time limit_.’

 

“There isn’t a time limit. But I… I’d like to get it done by next week?” He sighed and rested an elbow on the table so he could fit his chin in his cupped palm, creating the perfect picture of dejection. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas, do you?”

 

Bifur tugged on a braid.

 

“I’d be awfully grateful.”

 

He seemed to consider it for a moment before reaching into his jerkin and pulling out his clarinet. At the expression on Bilbo’s face, Bifur tipped his head again (left, left) and coaxed a few sweet notes from the instrument.

 

“Well, it’s a good suggestion, but I’ve already sung to him. I hardly think playing an instrument - which I can’t learn in a week - will be very original.” Bilbo turned away to snatch another biscuit off the plate, but was stopped by an insistent tugging on his sleeve.

 

Bifur again blew a couple of notes before gesturing emphatically at the clarinet. Bilbo’s frown only grew.

 

“But… Thorin doesn’t play the clarinet. Does he?”

 

To his surprise, Bifur actually rolled his eyes at this. Bilbo was tapped gently between the eyes with said clarinet, as if that was supposed to jog his brain into working properly.

 

It worked.

 

“Oh!” Bilbo stared at Bifur with wide eyes. “ _Ohhh_.”

 

* * *

 

_March, 2944 T.A._

 

Bilbo did not put on his best clothes for the occasion.

 

His best clothes were as follows: first was a shirt made from sheer spider silk with pearl-chip buttons. Over it went a rich, red cotton velvet vest with gold brocade and then a jacket with a formal collar, the unknown fabric stiff with silver stitching. The breeches were a little more tasteful, even if the laces to do them up were a little more elaborate than he was used to. A neck-scarf was the final piece of the ensemble, the ends weighted with tiny carnelians to keep it from fluttering in the wind.

 

It was ostentatious, and rather showcased who had had a hand in designing it. When Bilbo had chosen his clothes that morning, he had quite happily skipped over them for more sedate Hobbit clothing; as long as he was dressed, and dressed well, he didn’t see a problem in doing so.

 

Yes, he was going to see Thorin in the audience chamber. Yes, there would be others there. But Bilbo had requested that Balin (who had kindly agreed to arrange the entire meeting) make sure only family – and perhaps a few friends – be present. They wouldn’t begrudge him a lack of finery.

 

He sifted shaking fingers through his hair before abruptly standing up to make two quick laps ‘round his room. He switched the direction of his pacing for a moment before deviating and sitting on a chair (careful not to wrinkle his clothes).

 

His gift should have been delivered to Thorin yesterday. At least the King would have had no confusion as to who had sent it; Bilbo could only hope that Bifur’s advice had paid off and that he’d made the right choice.

 

About what to get Thorin, of course, not about whether he should propose marriage to the Dwarf. That he knew already.

 

A knock on his open door brought him away from his thoughts. Bilbo looked up, and felt a wide smile blossom on his face.

 

“Hullo, Uncle.” Kíli was leaning against the doorframe.

 

Fíli smiled. “We’re here to escort you.”

 

“Of course.” Bilbo rose, smoothing down his vest and discreetly checking that the curls on his feet were tamed. They were, he saw with a touch of relief.

 

Rather than embarrass Fíli and Kíli by recalling snippets of his parents’ marriage (or embarrass himself by subsequently becoming weepy about it), Bilbo tucked a handkerchief into his left breast pocket and glared up at them.

 

“No hauling me off like that last time. I’ll walk on my own.”

 

The princes wore faces of matching glee.

 

“You’re well aware Thorin won’t like it.”

 

“True.”

 

Kíli sighed. “Fine. After you, Bilbo.”

 

They walked in what was definitely not silence, and Bilbo was thankful for the brothers’ easy chatter. It helped to calm his nerves some, even if he did grab their arms before they could make to open the doors for him.

 

“Bilbo? What is it?” Fíli asked.

 

“You lads would know if he rejected, yes?”

 

Kíli let out an apparently involuntary snort; he looked horrified with himself before turning to Fíli beseechingly. The heir sighed.

 

“Bilbo, I don’t think anyone would go through the trouble of courtship if they didn’t want to marry the other person in the first place. Thorin’s definitely not going to waste his time – or yours – like that.”

 

That was… that was true.

 

They both bonked their foreheads gently against his, before stepping away. Bilbo dabbed at his top lip with his handkerchief. They were right. His fears weren’t applicable in the circumstances. He was about to have his betrothal formally accepted, nothing more. It could not be more frightening than having to deal with Smaug.

 

They stepped into the hall.

 

Dís was there, standing near Dwalin and Balin. Fíli and Kíli immediately went to their mother to take their place on either side of her. They both kissed her temples.

 

Also present was Thorin. Well, this wouldn’t work without him.

 

As he put one foot in front of the other, any remaining doubt seemed to melt away. Balin winked as he passed. Dwalin smirked.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Good morning, Bilbo.”

 

Now understanding some of the nervousness Thorin must have felt at the beginning, Bilbo asked, “Am I to assume you’ve accepted the gift?”

 

“I have.”

 

“And am I to assume you’ve accepted the betrothal?”

 

Thorin clasped his wrists, meeting his eyes squarely. “Yes.”

 

Oh. That was straightforward.

 

Thorin raised his bushy eyebrows at Bilbo’s relieved sigh. With his thumbs rubbing little circles into Bilbo’s wrists, he asked, “If you were concerned about that, what will happen when we make the formal announcement tomorrow?”

 

 _Blast_.

 

* * *

 

It was natural enough to follow Thorin back to his quarters after the ‘ceremony’. Bilbo thought it had to do with the fact that no one chided them for it, because he certainly didn’t notice where his feet were taking him until he recognised the gold-streaked-marble underneath them.

 

Having Thorin’s arm around his shoulders possibly helped with losing his bearings.

 

“Is there a reason why you’ve lured me here?”

 

“Is there a reason why you came so sweetly?”

 

“Yes, well –” Bilbo cut himself off with a squawk and a jump when Thorin pulled away, his arm dropping down to briefly brush Bilbo’s backside. He glared suspiciously at Thorin’s back; without looking at the King’s face Bilbo had no idea if it’d been an accident or not.

 

“I just thought you’d like to see that your gift arrived in once piece,” Thorin said, gesturing with a hand towards the harp. He’d left it on a low table before one of the chairs by the fireplace. “I made sure it was tuned last night.”

 

Bilbo approached slowly; he could only imagine what Thorin looked like with it on his lap, backlit by the fire and absently plucking out a melody. He absently ran a hand along the top of it – the ‘neck’, apparently. What had drawn him to this particular harp had been the curving pattern carved down its pillar. The merchant (a Laketown Man who had come up to Erebor for that day’s market), boasted how he’d bought it off an Elf.

 

He’d be sure not to mention that particular titbit to Thorin.

 

“I hope it’s to your liking.”

 

“The workmanship is excellent. Almost Elvish.”

 

He bit the inside of his cheek, covering any involuntary reaction he might have made by plucking one of the strings. The note rang out clear and soft.

 

“I do appreciate the gift.”

 

“I didn’t doubt it,” Bilbo lied, and needed only a glance at Thorin’s expression to know how successful that lie had been.

 

“Come,” said Thorin. “I would teach you how to play it.”

 

Bilbo backed away from the harp, frantically rifling through his mind for a non-insulting excuse. “I – I am not, I’m not very good with music, Thorin.”

 

“Someone with a voice as sweet as yours cannot claim that.”

 

 _That_ certainly had him feeling warm and syrupy all over. But it would not distract Bilbo from his discomposure, no it would not. “Be, be that as it may –”

 

Thorin touched his hip. “Bilbo. Indulge me. Just sit.”

 

He sat.

 

Thorin looked pleased. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, how much do you know about the harp?”

 

Not a lot. The first time Bilbo had even seen a harp being played had been by Thorin in Laketown – it had amazed him too watch the King pluck delicately at gut-strings with the same fingers he used to grasp Orcrist. Apparently that memory had not been preserved enough for Bilbo to recall the exact posture of Thorin’s hands.

 

Thorin tutted. “Your wrists should be more rigid.”

 

“You know very well I’ve never done this before.”

 

“That’s why I’m teaching you,” Thorin replied in a reasonable tone. He dropped Bilbo’s hand. “This would be easier if you could hold the harp on your lap.”

 

He levelled the Dwarf with an unimpressed look. “Let’s not try to break it when it’s only a few days old, hmm?”

 

“Yes, it is a problem. Hum.” He tugged on a braid absently for a moment. And then, against all anticipation, Thorin slung a leg over the chair, ending up seated directly behind Bilbo with his front flush to Bilbo’s back. The Hobbit instantly went rigid.

 

“There,” Thorin rumbled, breath hot on Bilbo’s ear. “That’s better.”

 

“Thorin. That’s not better.”

 

“Why not?” Any closer and his lips would be against skin. Bilbo shuddered. “You taught me to cook, why can’t I teach you this?”

 

“That isn’t the issue.” _When I taught you, I wasn’t manhandling you unnecessarily._

 

“Come, come, Hobbit mine. I’ll try to teach you the proper posture. Then we can move on to other activities.”

 

Bilbo rolled eyes and huffed, actions which Thorin evidently took as consent because he took up Bilbo’s wrists again. The Hobbit found himself rolling his eyes more than a few times; as blessed as Thorin was with skills, teaching was not one of them.

 

“You’re too stiff,” was the common complaint, and Bilbo wanted to elbow Thorin, he really did.

 

Finally Bilbo could take no more. He wrenched out of Thorin’s grip with what was left of his strength and unthinkingly sagged back against the Dwarf’s body. “Can we stop now? My arms’re aching.”

 

“They should be stronger after all that sword training. Or have you been neglecting your practice?”

 

He winced. “Harping isn’t the same thing.”

 

“ _Harping_ ,” Thorin repeated mockingly.

 

“Harpery?”

 

“No. You’re just being silly now.”

 

Bilbo didn’t bother to reply. He was too tired.

 

He dozed a little, toes curling weakly in pleasure as Thorin rubbed down his arms, fingers squeezing up and down his sore muscles. It sent pleasant tingles through his spine, making him soft and pliant in Thorin’s hold, and Bilbo hummed when Thorin finally stopped. Quite unknowingly, he brought Thorin’s arms in close so they wrapped around him securely.

 

Bilbo felt Thorin nuzzle the skin behind one ear. “Thank you, Bilbo. For accepting my courtship.”

 

He reached out blindly (when had he closed his eyes?) to grasp Thorin’s forearm. “Thank you for giving me the chance.” It was impossible to think about life without Thorin; how strange that the very permanency he’d feared before was now something he was looking forward to.

 

Thorin nosed Bilbo’s shoulder; he could feel it through the fabric of his third-best weskit and fourth-best shirt. Bilbo arched his back a little, leaning into the motion, and was just about to venture a question when the door opened.

 

Who else should walk in but Dís – when she took one look at them, she pointed the axe she held in hand at them with narrowed eyes.

 

“Explain.”

 

* * *

 

_June 2944 T.A._

 

“May I ask you a question?”

 

Bilbo lowered his spoon. “Of course you may.”

 

Thorin reached out to touch Bilbo’s wrist. Apparently betrothed couples were allowed to be more free with their affections (within limits, if Dís had anything to say about it) – something Bilbo certainly couldn’t find fault with.

 

“Since we are to wed, would you prefer to have your own rooms?”

 

“What do you mean?” He frowned.

 

“Once you are officially Prince Consort, you will be relocated to the East Wing.” The King inspected their hands with an exaggerated amount of attention. “I thought you were aware of this.”

 

“I was,” Bilbo replied slowly. “But I thought we’d be sharing quarters.”

 

Thorin glanced at him once, quickly, before averting his gaze again. “I would not presume to make that choice for you.”

 

Bilbo made sure his free hand was clean before placing it atop Thorin’s. “Then you don’t have to. I’d rather stay with you.” He’d expected to combust with embarrassment, but his cheeks didn’t even gain a twinge of colour. “Don’t you remember me telling you that I wanted to wake to your face?”

 

Thorin’s chin lifted. “I assumed you were just in need of a rhyme.”

 

He made to pull away, but Thorin held fast, his fingers warm and dry and comforting. Bilbo huffed, and Thorin smiled, and they kept their grip on each other even as they continued to eat.

 

“Kíli’s told me about the basic layout of your quarters, anyway.”

 

“Oh, he has, has he?” Thorin’s tone hinted at a certain Prince receiving a talking to in the near future.

 

Bilbo ignored this. “Yes. I’m sure I can repurpose one of the side rooms there for my own use. Perhaps one of the ones meant for children.”

 

“And what makes you think those rooms won’t be occupied in the future?” He raised a bushy eyebrow.

 

Bilbo choked. As he reached for his napkin, he glared at Thorin’s overly innocent expression. “You enjoy doing that.”

 

“I have no idea what you mean.”

 

“Of course you don’t.”

 

“I merely thought you’d be amenable to having a family of our own.”

 

He huffed. “Thorin?”

 

“Yes, dear one?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

_Mid-June 2944 T.A._

 

The alarm in Erebor had a very distinct rhythm to it. The drums were located near the ramparts over the main entrance to Erebor, so as to be reached easily once a threat was caught sight of – in this case, the threat was a rag-tag army of Orcs heading their way. It was nowhere as big as the one at the Battle of Five Armies, but it was something they had to put down nonetheless.

 

Thanks to ingenious system of tubes set into the walls, the Dwarves had managed to ensure that the alarm could be heard in every corner of the mountain – except perhaps the newer tunnels and the more unstable excavation sites.

 

Just over the sound of the drums were the horns from Dale. Dwarves rushed to and fro, battalion leaders barking orders and armour-clad soldiers moving towards the doors. From where he stood, they seemed like insects.

 

Bilbo wrung his hands and turned at a call of his name. He was taken up into Thorin’s arms before he could form a reply, pressed up against uncomfortable layers of armour. It starkly reminded him of the first time he and Thorin had embraced.

 

The grip around him slackened and he was able to step back.

 

“You’ll stay safe?” Bilbo kept his eyes on the purple wool around Thorin’s neck.

 

“I will return to you.” Fingers lifted his chin. “I will _always_ return to you.”

 

“And I’ll wait.” He held out his arm, and it took a moment for Thorin to realise what he was meant to do. Bilbo’s fingers could not encircle Thorin’s forearm the way the Dwarf could, but that was alright. He sighed when their foreheads touched. “Not gladly, but I’ll be here, waiting for you after your victory.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

 

Before Bilbo realised it, lips brushed against his – quickly enough that he had to wonder if he’d imagined it. There was no chance to call after Thorin to ask him; the King was striding away to get into position with the rest of the soldiers.

 

He didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

Óin brought in a new candle and lit it. “Worrying will not speed up his healing. I’ve already told you, he’ll pull through just fine.”

 

“It makes me feel better to sit here.”

 

This was a common enough reaction Óin had witnessed over the years… but like his brother, he did not exactly possess the best bedside manner. “He won’t _die_.”

 

“An Orc hit him in the neck! With a sword!”

 

“It didn’t go through.”

 

Bilbo sullenly kept his silence, glancing at the scarf that had been washed clean of blood and now lay folded on the bedside table. He wondered what would have happened if he and Thorin had not courted, and if Thorin had not had the _erzûkh-inùkûd_ around his neck.

 

Would he now be seated beside a grave?

 

He heard Óin take a breath, as if to say something further, but Thorin groaned. Bilbo’s heart swelled as he watched the King’s eyelids flutter open.

 

He surged forward. “Thorin –”

 

“ _Wait_.” Óin glared sternly at the both of them (more at Bilbo). When he was satisfied that neither would be interrupting any time soon, he started his examination of the King. He looked over Thorin, taking note of his breathing rate and bruising, then zoned in on the major injury to his neck. Judging by his nod, it seemed to be healing to his satisfaction. After redressing the cut, Óin then listened to Thorin’s breathing by pressing his ear trumpet to the King’s back.

 

“Hmm.” He pulled back. “Seems to be fine. Like I said,” he added pointedly, looking over at Bilbo.

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

 

“Tell me if it feels hot or starts bleeding, Thorin. Ya know the routine.”

 

“I do.” Thorin stiffly reached out to clasp Óin’s elbow. “Thank you.”

 

“Hmm. I’m off t’ see to Dwarves that actually need my help.” Óin paused. “Ya can join him on the bed if you like, laddie… just no straining him, right?”

 

Bilbo groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~**This chapter is unbetaed.** I take whole responsibility for this fact, because I only managed to send it to my beta yesterday. As she's wiped out with RL stuff, I've no right to demand she give this more attention. She'll get it back to me soon enough =)~~
> 
> My beta is a goddess among humans. Chapter's updated.
> 
> I'm... not too happy with the chapter, but hey. I got the fic updated in time and I... can't actually believe we've got this far. One more chapter, folks.


	13. 12 - Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well.

_Their union was one that lasted the entirety of their years, even if it was not an easy union. Nalir was known for her sharp tongue, while Broll was prone to forgetting all else in favour of a new project. But they learned, together. Nalir’s temper ran bright-hot as a forge, but Broll’s patience was as strong as tempered steel. Broll often lost sight of the world around him when consumed by work, but Nalir was always there to sweetly bring him back._

_It has been suggested that their marriage survived such instances as Nalir’s barrenness and their inability to conceive, as well as the loss of Broll’s hand and the subsequent closing of his forge. Unfortunately, none of these tales can be confirmed._

_What is true is that while theirs had not been an easy love, it was one that endured. It has been immortalised in the tales of our people – so shall it be forevermore._

 

— _Excerpt from Dwarvish Courtship, Preface: Pertaining to the History of Courting._  

 

* * *

 

_Mid-May, 2944 T.A._

 

“This one fits,” said Fíli, twisting the sizing ring off of his finger and passing it to the jeweller.

 

The Dwarf in question had been heavily recommended by Dori; she hummed and slipped the appropriate ring onto a mandrel. Her name was Menoic and she was shorter even than Bilbo, with eyes as black as coal and hair to match. “Do you have any colours or styles in particular that you would like?” she asked.

 

Fíli looked towards Bilbo, who swallowed. He honestly had no idea about this sort of thing. His mother’s jewellery had fit neatly into a cherry wood box, but he’d never been interested in its contents. He’d always tended to steal her buttons instead.

 

“Darker colours, I think,” he said finally. “And the simpler the design the better.”

 

This earned him a disgusted look from both Dwarves – though better concealed on Menoic’s part. All the same, she bowed her head and started pulling out boxes for him to look at.

 

“Where did you say Kíli had gone, again?” Bilbo asked, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sheer selection being laid out. Heavens, that stone was the size of a chicken egg!

 

Fíli set his chin in his palm morosely. “He’s leading the envoy to Mirkwood. When he returns, it will likely be with Elves in tow.”

 

“I thought they’d not be allowed to witness the wedding.” It wasn’t that surprising to learn that discussing the traditions of wedding ceremonies with non-Dwarves was extremely taboo; even Dís was not allowed to translate that particular text. Bilbo figured that he was only allowed to witness it by virtue of being part of the betrothed couple.

 

“It’s still courteous to invite them to the feast. Of course, Uncle’s hoping that they will not come at all.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Menoic cleared her throat. “I hope these are adequate, Master Baggins.”

 

Oh, dear.

 

Bilbo immediately (and mentally) rejected all of the ones that looked too large for even Dwarvish fingers… which ruled out half of the choices. He also didn’t want to choose any of the rings set in gold. Silver seemed to suit Thorin better.

 

But um. There were still too many.

 

The Hobbit turned to Fíli. “Any suggestions?”

 

Fíli tugged on one of his new moustache beads. “Something in Thorin’s colours?”

 

Bilbo considered this. Thorin _did_ look ever so fetching in blue. That helped narrow it down some. Skipping over the more glittery sapphires and aquamarines (he had to ask Fíli what the green-blue gems were) was natural. He found himself automatically looking for something more muted. More discreet.

 

He picked up a ring with a dark stone set into it. It was black, but as it caught the flickering light, Bilbo could have sworn that he saw ribbons of deep blue and purple within it. He frowned, and lifted it closer. But now there were flecks of green as well!

 

“That is opal. A doublet I’m afraid.” Menoic sounded almost apologetic.

 

“A doublet?”

 

“It’s a thin layer of opal with an onyx backing to give it a darker and richer colour. Not as valuable as a similarly vibrant opal without the backing.” Fíli tapped his fingers on the velvet-lined box and sighed impatiently. “Don’t you have a better selection?”

 

Bilbo ignored this rudeness, still keeping his eyes on the ring in hand as he turned it this way and that. It made him feel a bit like a magpie, but the colours were enchanting. As Menoic delved in the back for more rings, Bilbo held the opal one and caught a glimpse of a _tiny_ sliver of pale blue.

 

The _exact_ shade of Thorin’s eyes.

 

Menoic bustled back to the counter and Bilbo looked up.

 

“I’ll take this,” he said.

 

* * *

 

_June, 2944 T.A._

 

Of course clothes had been made specifically for the wedding. Of course.

 

“Shouldn’t I have seen these earlier?” he asked, fingering the line of diamonds along the jacket’s sleeve.

 

“If you had, you would have rejected it all.”

 

_True enough_ , he thought sourly.

 

“I don’t see why you’re complaining,” Dís said, clearly amused at his expense. “I made sure the tailors revised their earlier designs.”

 

“How can their earlier designs be worse than _this_?”

 

She told him. He shuddered.

 

“I’m in your debt, then.”

 

“Yes.” She made a shooing motion. “Put them on, we must check the fit before tomorrow.”

 

Draping the many layers of his clothes over one arm and obligingly walking behind the changing screen, Bilbo tried not to let his nervous anticipation show. This was not at all like a Hobbit wedding. If it was, he’d be collecting flowers or helping bring out the ale barrels, or perhaps be smoking out in the garden – every conceivable thing but trying on ridiculous layers of heavy and ostentatious clothes.

 

First came the silk undershirt that he tucked into his burgundy trousers. The overshirt came next – it was a sunny yellow, and Bilbo would have quite liked it but for the stiff high-collar. Over that was the very Dwarvish belt made of interlocking rectangles of gold, each carved to form a seamless repeating pattern.

 

As he’d noticed earlier, the sleeves of the jacket had diamonds stitched along them. What he hadn’t noticed was that this was echoed along the hem. A pity, seeing as the jacket itself was bright green moleskin that would have fit right in with Shire fashions.

 

“How is it?” Dís called.

 

“There’re too many layers. I will boil.”

 

She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Let me see.”

 

Not bothering to curb his grumbles (because Dís was as thick-skinned as the rest of the line of Durin about such things), Bilbo stepped out. If he was honest, he’d admit that he was glad for her interceding with the tailors – there was no way that he’d be able to move so freely if she’d allowed their original plans for double-layered breeches and an overrobe to boot.

 

“How bad is it?” he asked – or wanted to ask. The question died away on his tongue before he could even ask it.

 

Dís had her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes.

 

“Dís?”

 

She beckoned him close and Bilbo went quickly, taking her outstretched hand. He gripped it tightly.

 

“Dís, please tell me what the matter is.”

“It’s only…” The princess cleared her throat and removed her hand so her words wouldn’t be muffled. “Bilbo, you and Thorin are getting _married_.” She touched his cheek.

 

“Yes.” There was a catch in his voice. He covered her hand with his and listened to his heart thumping in his ears. “Yes, we are.”

 

* * *

 

The handjoining ceremony was scheduled for early evening. Logical, seeing as it would be followed by a feast (which, he’d been assured, would go on well into the night). Bilbo and Thorin were not allowed to see each other before then – not that either had a schedule free enough to go ‘visiting’ –, so when he arrived at the hall, the King had not yet done so himself.

 

The hall, though he’d seen it before, still took Bilbo’s breath away. It was enormous. Graceful arches supported the extremely high ceiling, with solid pillars set into the walls. It was filled with light and noise and Dwarves – at a guess, Bilbo would say that most of the Ereborean Dwarves were present, along with representatives from the other Dwarf kingdoms.

 

It made him all the more aware that he was only one little Hobbit in the centre of it all.

 

Desperately trying to distract himself, Bilbo cast his gaze about. He caught details of the oddest of things; the fur trim of Kíli’s boots, or the gleam of Gimli’s axe-blade, or the rubies set into Óin’s ear trumpet. Other elements completely slipped away from him – and then he caught sight of Thorin, and. Oh.

 

Oh, he certainly wanted to commit that to memory.

 

To be expected, a Dwarf King in full marriage regalia was a sight to behold. _Thorin_ in full marriage regalia was just… beautiful. He wore the jewel-heavy garb of his people better than Bilbo did, of course; the cobalt brocade tunic he wore over his batiste undershirt was embellished with tiny sapphires. It was cinched at the waist with a chain belt studded with moonstones.

 

Thorin wore no coat or jacket over his clothes; it would have detracted from the entire picture. As it was he stood tall and broad before Bilbo, hands relaxed by his sides. Even his trousers – what could be seen of them – were special. At different angles they seemed dual-toned. The buckles on his boots were polished until they gleamed and glowed.

 

It was the white lilac twisted into Thorin’s hair that stole Bilbo’s breath, though.

 

The Dwarf caught his amazed gaze (not that that was particularly difficult). “We agreed that I would look too silly in Hobbit clothes. This seemed an acceptable compromise.”

 

“It is… more than acceptable.” Unthinkingly, Bilbo reached out to touch; each bloom was fixed in place with almost-invisible jewelled hairpins. He had to smile. Merging of Hobbit and Dwarf customs.

 

“Are you pleased, my One?”

 

The petals were whisper-soft against his fingers. “More than you will ever know.”

 

“I hope my next surprise for you will be as pleasing.” Thorin smiled at him, his eyes sparkling with promise, but Bilbo couldn’t begin to guess what he was hinting at. Everything was pushing perfection as it was, sappy as it sounded.

 

(Honestly, he was sounding like one of those romance novels he most certainly didn’t enjoy relaxing with.)

 

Thorin cleared his throat. “Come.” He led Bilbo forward, his hold on the Hobbit’s elbow a shade too tight.

 

_Really_ , Bilbo thought amusedly. _It’s hardly as if I’m going to run_ now.

 

They only needed to take a few steps to stand before the furnace constructed in the middle of the hall; as they stood in position, a hush descended. Bilbo swallowed and faced Thorin. It would be easier to ignore all the eyes on them if he focused on his husband-to-be.

 

Thorin tenderly grasped Bilbo’s right hand. He held a gold ring, one with a stone the colour of fire and studded with stars. As he slipped it onto Bilbo’s finger, he said in a clear voice, “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, I have courted you and you have accepted. You have asked for my hand and I have accepted. Take this ring, then, to signify the life we will now build together.” He kissed Bilbo’s knuckles.

 

Bilbo wet his dry lips. “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór – you have courted me and I have accepted. I have asked for your hand and you have accepted. Take this ring, then, to signify the years we will share between us.” He laid a kiss of his own on Thorin’s skin, above the opal ring he’d placed on the King’s hand.

 

His fingers then found their way to Thorin’s hair, separating a lock of it into sections and braiding it quickly. (Silently, he sent thanks in Dís’ direction.) As he worked, he intoned, “With this braid I swear to give you all that I have – heart, body, and soul. I swear to give my life for yours… and I swear I will always return to your side.”

 

Bilbo had to keep his gaze down, then, letting the braid slip from his grasp; if he let his eyes linger on Thorin’s face any longer, he was afraid he’d do something embarrassing.

 

It was a fear that only increased as Thorin sifted through curls and placed golden beads in Bilbo’s hair. His voice was low, as if only for Bilbo’s ears. “With these beads I swear to give you all that I have – heart, body, and soul. I swear to fight for you, and I swear that I will always try to listen.”

 

They heard Dís snort at that; Bilbo tried and failed to suppress his smile.

 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he teased, delighted when Thorin smirked back.

 

“I did say _try_.”

 

The Hobbit rolled his eyes, smile now a little rueful, and held out his hand. It wasn’t the right time or place for an argument; they were only halfway through, after all. Now a length of chain would be wound around their wrists as they walked around the furnace.

 

Except Thorin only gestured for Fíli and Kíli to step forward, smiling slightly when Bilbo’s expression turned quizzical.

 

He opened his mouth to hiss out a question, but he caught sight of the ribbons in their hands first; _blue_ ribbons that they proceeded to tie around Thorin’ and Bilbo’s wrists. Bilbo’s chest only seized further when Dís and Bofur took the princes’ places and tied a single white ribbon to bind Thorin’ and Bilbo’s hands together.

 

So this was Thorin’s surprise. Bilbo found that his throat was tight, and could only whisper, “I love you.”

 

Thorin squeezed his hand in reply. “Let us take the Steps.”

 

The Steps referred to the seven circles they would make around the furnace set up in front of them. Each round represented every one of the Fathers of the Dwarves, and the lit coals were symbolic of Mahal’s forge – the first forge of the world. They walked side-by-side, as equals, Bilbo’s right hand held securely in Thorin’s left. The light from the coal fire caught the diamonds on his clothes and cast little rainbows in his vision.

 

When they completed the last circuit, the two of them stood facing one another so they could begin the final part of the handjoining: the vows. Even translated into Westron they were beautiful; when he’d read them, Bilbo had had them memorised before he’d realised it. He could feel no shame in doing so.

 

He and Thorin gripped hands tightly as they looked deep into each other’s eyes. They recited in tandem:

 

_“We have taken the Seven Steps. You have become mine forever. I have become yours. Hereafter, I cannot live without you. Do not live without me. Let us share the joys. We are in word and meaning, One. You are thought and I am sound. You are hammer and I am anvil. You are axe and I am sword. May the nights be honey-sweet and the days ever-bright. May the summers be endless and the winters warm. As the earth stays strong and the mountains stand tall, so may our union be undying until the remaking of the world.”_

 

Only Bilbo was near enough to Thorin to hear the way his voice trembled as they spoke. He didn’t bring it up because he could actually feel his own eyes prickling. Besides which, he wouldn’t humiliate his husband.

 

_His husband_.

 

Bilbo helped Thorin tug off the white ribbon that connected their hands, and they both let it drop into the fire. Everyone in the room seemed to collectively hold their breaths.

 

Thorin cleared his throat. “Under the eyes of Mahal and Yavanna, it is done.”

 

As cheers went up around them (most notably from the Company, and particularly from a certain pair of princes), Bilbo found himself being pulled close. He gently laid his hands over Thorin’s chest as they touched foreheads.

 

“It is done,” Thorin repeated, voice intimate enough to make Bilbo shiver.

 

He shut his eyes and wished he could close the inches between them to kiss his husband. “It is done.”

 

They did not have much time to linger in their embrace; Bilbo soon found himself tugged away from the clasp of strong arms. Dís knocked their foreheads together first before hugging him tightly. Before he could even return it, Bilbo was passed on to Fíli, then Kíli, then Balin, Bofur, Rorin – soon he was quite dizzy as the rest of his friends took their turns.

 

Not to mention his increasingly sore forehead. Dwarves and their thick skulls, honestly.

 

Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo belatedly realised that he was hanging off of his husband’s arm – and had been thinking out loud.

 

“We’ll send for a pain draught, if it bothers you too much.”

 

“Not just yet.” He stroked the cool surface of his ring with his thumb. “Though if we have to greet your people and I’m expected to bash heads with them as well…”

 

“Not to worry, _husband_. You will be spared that.”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows (and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his skull). “Which will I be spared? The head bashing or the greeting?”

 

“Both.” Thorin led them out of the hall, nodding regally at those who bowed. “Good wishes from those who are not family or close friends are… implied.”

 

Bilbo considered this and considered the prospect of having to write individual thank-you notes. Huh. It seemed that, in this at least, Dwarves had the right idea. “So we get to go to the feast immediately?” He’d been under the impression that they’d have to linger as well-wisher after well-wisher offered their congratulations.

 

“Yes, after the contracts are signed.”

 

Only a week after the betrothal, marriage contracts had been drawn up and negotiated. Bilbo could recall _those_ meetings very well. There had been an endless amount of provisos that had been brought up, some of which he’d found incredibly ridiculous. While needing to specify his official duties and obligations was understandable, why did they have to stipulate the conditions of ‘Sexual Congress’? He blushed to think of it.

 

Suffice it to say it had taken more than a few arguments to get through the subsequent amendments.

 

Balin and Rorin were waiting for them.

 

“The contract’s all set up, m’lads,” said Balin, gesturing to the table. It looked innocuous enough – but as with his burglar’s contract, it unfolded into a monster of a thing that trailed onto the floor.

 

Bilbo sighed, and with Thorin beside him, started. Thankfully this agreement had no mention of incineration (although there was a clause within specifically for funeral arrangements) and going through it was straightforward… until he reached the end.

 

“Hang on.” His frown wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t remember this in any of the drafts.”

 

Balin leaned over his shoulder, eye-glass in hand. Rorin stepped up behind Bilbo’s other shoulder. Thorin, he noted, was very carefully looking elsewhere.

 

“Ah. Thorin had that added. He reasoned that you would not have any objections.” Balin lowered the eye-glass. “Do you?”

 

“I – no. No, I don’t.”

 

_Provision 17: The Consort may visit his home in the Shire as often as he wishes to, so long as he promises to return to the King’s side._

 

Oh, Thorin. Bilbo fisted his hand.

 

“Is there anything you do object to, Bilbo?” Rorin touched his shoulder to draw him back to the present.

 

Bilbo cleared his throat hurriedly, trying to rid himself of the lump that had formed there. He shook his head. “No, I – everything’s fine. I’ll just, I’ll just…” He gratefully accepted the quill passed to him.

 

It was a miracle that his hand didn’t shake as he signed the contract with a flourish.

 

“And do you have any objections, Thorin?”

 

The King plucked the quill from Bilbo’s unresisting fingers and put down his own signature before he looked up at Balin. A smirk played about his mouth. “I have none.”

 

It was Rorin’ and Balin’s turn to sign as witnesses before the contract was carefully folded and tucked into a slim metal casing – to be kept as official records, Balin explained. Rorin started shepherding the white-haired Dwarf out of the door, grin every bit as dimpled as his own husband’s.

 

“Come, my friend,” he exclaimed cheekily, “I’m sure the King and his consort can find their way on their own.”

 

And then they two were alone. Bilbo bit his lip to stop his besotted smile. “You didn’t have to add that to the contract, Thorin.”

 

“It wasn’t done for you. I figured that I would need the reminder, should I ever be consumed by my wretched greed.”

 

Thorin lifted his chin; Bilbo frowned. “Consumed by – how is the contract supposed to help?”

 

“You should be free to travel to your home, seeing as I am keeping you so far from it.” His gaze dropped for a second before snapping back to Bilbo’s hazel eyes. “The contract will be your aid in the possibility that I am… not in my right mind.”

 

Bilbo drew his fingers down Thorin’s jaw. “You must know, Thorin, that if that _ever_ happened, I would not leave. I’d make sure you returned to me.”

 

Pale lips trembled. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

They stood in silence for a long while, Bilbo gently carding through Thorin’s beard in an effort to comfort his fears. In his heart burned the hope that such things would never come to pass.

 

After a few moments, he dared to steal a quick kiss before Thorin could stop him; now was no time for melancholy. “Come, O’ King. The feast awaits us.”

 

Under his breath, though he went willingly enough, Thorin muttered, “As do the Elves.”

 

“Oh, hush. Look at the bright side; Thranduil could not come, so he sent his son in his stead.”

 

“Not only his son.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I do not like Kíli’s association with that Captain.”

 

“You don’t have to like it, Thorin.” Bilbo shook his head. “Kíli is perfectly capable of judging who to be friendly with; and really, I think there are far worse choices in friends than an Elf.”

 

“But –”

 

“No.” He shot the King a glare. “Do you remember your promise?”

 

Thorin pursed his lips mulishly. Bilbo supposed that was the best he was going to get.

 

“In any case, I’ve seen the seating arrangements. If you turn to speak with Bard, you can ignore the Elves completely.”

 

“I can think of someone better to focus my attention on.”

 

The sultry tone of Thorin’s voice was new to Bilbo’s ears, though not unwelcome. Oh, not unwelcome at _all_. He coloured. “Flatterer.”

 

“Hardly.” A heavy arm settled around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Perhaps I instead sit by your relatives. I’m sure they will be most engaging.”

 

He winced. “While I appreciate your foresight in inviting them along with the latest caravan from the Blue Mountains, I think I’d rather you limit your time in their presence.”

 

Thorin’s open expression of curiosity was all wide blue eyes and raised brows – and Bilbo saw through it straightaway.

 

“Don’t even try,” he said, waggling a finger. “I know you only want to fish out embarrassing stories of my childhood.”

 

“That is a most unfair accusation.” Thorin shook his head, releasing Bilbo. “Oh, cruel creature, why must you tease me so?”

 

“‘ _Accusation’_? I walked in on you and Drogo trying to –”

 

“Wait.”

 

Bilbo found himself being pushed into a shadowy corner by insistent hands at his waist. “Thorin, what are you up to?” he asked laughingly, unworried as he grasped strong forearms. “Thorin –”

 

Dry, thin lips covered his and quite derailed any intentions Bilbo had had to ask questions. He was quite glad for the wall at his back as it gave him something to push off of in his effort to press closer to his, to his husband. Thorin clearly approved; groaning, he pulled Bilbo towards him enough that the Hobbit was drawn to the tips of his toes.

 

“Would that we could miss the feast.” Thorin’s growled words were a direct counterpoint to his soft, lingering kisses. “You are irresistible.”

 

Bilbo dropped back onto his heels. “I would be upset if you kept me from dinner.” It was only _half_ a joke – but that in itself was indicative of how deeply he felt for Thorin. At least Hobbit couples had their appetites in common.

 

“I would not dare deprive you of anything, least of all food.”

 

“Good.” Bilbo tugged on the braid he’d put into Thorin’s hair before tipping his head backwards to offer his lips in supplication. “Then you will not deprive me of this, either.”

 

“Never,” Thorin breathed, leaning down.

 

Bilbo clutched blindly at Thorin’s fine clothes, wondering at the headiness of being married. Part of him was utterly taken by the fierce passion of it all – the other part didn’t know how he was ever going to get anything _done_.

 

Then a clever tongue slipped past the seam of his lips into his mouth, and all thoughts happily vacated.

 

Strong hands slid down his back, hot even through his layers, and Bilbo’s spine arched. He felt utterly consumed by his _need_ to press closer to Thorin’s body; certainly, if Thorin’s grip dipped a little lower, Bilbo would have probably tried to climb him. And _that_ was a thought that would stay firmly in his mind, thank you.

 

Thorin’s mouth opened a little wider against his and Bilbo daringly flicked his tongue in to taste. The answering groan he received vibrated down to his marrow. Bilbo’s toes curled. Every swipe of Thorin’s lips over his left him aching, and the fact that he was now seriously considering his husband’s suggestion to damn the feast was inconceivable –

 

He let out a whimper – quite unintentionally, seeing as he certainly hadn’t expected to find his tongue trapped between blunt teeth – and suddenly Thorin hauled him impossibly close. The hard kiss bestowed upon him had Bilbo’s knees turning into jelly and his mind wavering on the borders of coherency. Everything they’d done before this felt chaste in comparison.

 

Unhappily, it would not do to make everyone wait while they canoodled in a corner. Bilbo wrenched his mouth away first – so very reluctantly – although they remained pressed against each other, nudging their noses together desperately.

 

“I apologise,” Thorin said breathlessly, and Bilbo’s heart soared. _He_ had made Thorin sound like that. _He_ was the cause of that blatant desire.

 

“No, I –” Bilbo carefully disengaged from Thorin’s hold. He took the time to straighten his clothes (those buttons had been fastened, surely), giving him the opportunity to compose himself.

 

“Perhaps we’d best continue to the feast.”

 

“Yes.” Bilbo took the hand offered to him. “Before I change my mind.”

 

Thorin chuckled at the clear emotions on Bilbo’s face – disappointment and relief –, for which Bilbo thought him unkind. He hadn’t been the one to shove Thorin into the corner, after all.

 

“Did you ever think your life would turn out this way?”

 

Bilbo snorted and bumped shoulders with Thorin – or he bumped his shoulder against the Dwarf’s upper arm. “I used to think I’d never marry, Thorin. I used to think I’d never step venture out of the Shire.” His thumb smoothed over his ring. “And yet here I am.”

“Here you are,” Thorin agreed. His steps slowed as they approached the impressive stone doors of the feasting hall. “And I can hardly believe my luck.”

 

The future would never be set in stone. But what was more important was that he’d have this Dwarf by his side for all of it. Bilbo thought his heart would burst when Thorin smiled down at him, and reached to kiss the back of his hand.

 

“Ready?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin snorted slightly.

 

When they walked into the hall to deafening cheers and roars, they did not do so as the King Under the Mountain and his Consort. No, it was Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins, newly husbands, who stepped inside the massive doors, holding hands and quite ready to face the upcoming years together.

 

Around their wrists were blue ribbons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding was an amalgamation of Jewish and Hindu traditions. Just because.  
> Thank Salvia G for inspiration re: the marriage contract.
> 
> I can hardly believe that this is being posted... it's the first multi-chaptered fic that I've completed ever since I've started writing and posting online. That's... huge for me. And I couldn't have done it without my friends (including my beta and some really lovely people) and without any of you. So thank you for that.
> 
> If you think this is the end... it really isn't. You may've noticed that this fic is part of a series now.
> 
> ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any reincarnation of Tolkien's works.


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